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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956045">hide and seek</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit'>parsnipit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Over) Protective Ford Pines, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emphasis on Comfort, Feral Ford Pines, Flashbacks, Ford Pines Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Stan Pines, Sea Grunkles, Self-Esteem Issues, Stan Pines is a Good Brother, Stangst, Violence, bc im a sucker for these boys taking care of each other, don't tag as ship or i'll cry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:55:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26956045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan’s next shout feels more like a scream, desperate and frightened and tearing his throat on the way out: “Ford, please! Come on! Stanford, you can’t do this to me, not again<i>—Stanford!”</i></p><p>Something slams into him, and he hits the deck hard. His first instinct is, naturally, to punch—but he doesn’t get that far. As soon as he tries to scramble back to his feet, a knee wedges itself into his back and two hands seize tightly on his shoulders and press him down. A low, dangerous growl reverberates around him, and he freezes. Shit. <i>Shit.</i></p><p>...are there werewolves this far out on the ocean?</p><p>But when he cranes to see over his shoulder, he does not see a werewolf. Instead, he sees—</p><p>“Ford?!”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ford Pines &amp; Stan Pines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>346</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. where i can't find you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <b>warnings: ptsd symptoms, references to past violence, panic attack, references to memory issues, self-loathing, swearing</b>
</p><p>oh gosh oh heck the feral!ford trope hit me like a train and i immediately word-vomited all of this into a document plz enjoy</p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLCgG9FsJn0&amp;list=PLg_nl2VAj2kyUyS9YVKOL4AG66sjUWk3O&amp;index=9">welcome home, son</a> by radical face</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Stan can’t find Ford </span>
  <em>
    <span>anywhere.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t uncommon for them to be apart for long stretches of time, now. They both have their own interests to pursue, and Ford gets cranky if he isn’t allowed his requisite Introvert Charging Time. Stan doesn’t mind the separation much, not the way he used to. He’s his own person, and so is Ford, and it’s okay for them to spend time alone. Still, there’s comfort to be found in the knowledge that if Stan’s</span>
  <em>
    <span> aloneness</span>
  </em>
  <span> ever does become</span>
  <em>
    <span> loneliness,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he only needs to head below deck to find Ford sitting at their cramped kitchenette table and waxing poetic about mutant cephalopods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, that’s where Ford </span>
  <em>
    <span>usually </span>
  </em>
  <span>is. Today, he must have squirreled himself away somewhere else, because his seat at the table is decidedly empty. Stan checks their bedroom, then the cargo hold, then the helm; finally, he pounds his fist against the door of their tiny bathroom and </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> gets no response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ford!” he shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Earth to Stanford Filbrick Pines! Come in, Ford!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Stan o’ War answers him with the creak of worn rope and the slow, steady slosh of saltwater waves at her bow. Jiminy Christmas, she’s just a little trawler! It’s not like there’s a lot of space to hide, and Stan knows that if he shouts Ford ought to hear him anywhere onboard. He’s not exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scowling, he storms back onto the deck and shouts again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knowing Ford, he’s probably found himself some obscure nook in the ship that no normal human being could ever find comfortable—but that he, of course, finds exactly to his liking. He’s just caught up in his reading or somethin’ else nerdy, and that’s why he’s not answering. In spite of those rationalizations, unease begins to curl in Stan’s chest as the emptiness around him persists, and he jams his hands into the pockets of his coat and hunches his shoulders against the urge to panic. Ford’s fine. They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span> fine. Stan isn’t going to overreact just because he’s been alone for a few minutes longer than normal; that’s clingy, and Ford doesn’t do well with clingy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath, Stan heads to the cargo hold again. He looks behind each box of salted fish, each barrel of pickles and bag of potatoes and tub of spices. He claws his way through Ford’s jugs of preservative, shoves aside the repair supplies for the ship and the VHF antenna and the anomaly radar. He even drags out their lifejackets and spare clothes and the boxes crammed full of Ford’s musty old graduate papers. Ford himself remains stubbornly nonexistent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn it,” Stan says, gnawing his lower lip. His heart beats an unsteady tempo in his chest as he heads back upstairs. More loudly, he exclaims, “Sixer, you’d better not be kiddin’ around! Where are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He checks the helm again, poking around underneath the seat and the control panels and the radars like Ford could even </span>
  <em>
    <span>possibly </span>
  </em>
  <span>fit himself there. Another cursory sweep of their bedroom follows: no Ford in the beds, no Ford under the beds, no Ford mysteriously sandwiched between the mattress and the bed railings or buried beneath the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. He isn’t hiding under the table, either, or behind the fridge, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>in </span>
  </em>
  <span>the fridge, or hell, even in the oven. His papers lay abandoned on the table alongside a jar stuffed full of preserved squid. The ink on his quill is dry. He’s been gone for a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan swallows hard when he realizes this, bringing his hands up and twisting his fingers into his hair. The boat lists underneath him. The whole world feels unbalanced.</span>
</p><p><span>...Ford’s supposed</span> <span>to be here, right? Did Stan forget that Ford was going somewhere else? Did he leave Ford on land recently for some unfathomable reason? Is this simply a memory lapse? Or—worse, </span><em><span>shit, </span></em><span>worse—did he simply imagine</span> <span>that Ford was here? But no, he couldn’t have done that: there’s too much evidence</span><em><span>. </span></em><span>Bags of jellybeans lurk in their cabinets. Papers sprawl on every spare surface (papers Stan certainly had no business writing, pretentious things that they are) and spatters of black ink stain the rich pinewood of their table. A tan trenchcoat hangs on the back of a chair, and their coffee maker displays not only the time, but their geographical coordinates (hundreds of miles deep into the Pacific), upcoming events (a call with their niblings this evening), and its own emotional state (absolutely thrilled with its newfound sentience). Ford’s here. He exists. He </span><em><span>has </span></em><span>to exist.</span></p><p>
  <span>But if that’s the case, where the hell is he? If he’s not on the boat, then—then—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan bolts back upstairs. He trips and skids his knee hard against the deck, but he’s blind to the pain—blind to anything but the empty waves around their boat. He leans over the bow, his eyes whipping across the surface of the water. If Ford fell overboard, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, but he’ll damn well figure it out</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fuck if he’s going to let his brother disappear on his watch again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sixer!” Stan shouts. His hands shake. His fingers clench, white-knuckled, around the bow. Around him, the waves curl and thrash, and the sunlight flashes off of them in silver gleams. He sees nothing but water. He races along the side of the boat, calling desperately. “Sixer! Ford, Stanford, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ford! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hey, answer me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is raw, already, cracking at the edges. His throat feels thick. He can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe. </span>
  </em>
  <span>By the time he’s made his way to the stern, black dots dance in the edges of his vision and the roof of his mouth buzzes. He forces himself to stop and gasp for air—he won’t do anyone any good if he passes out hyperventilating—before he resumes his agitated lap of the Stan o’ War. His boots pound against heavy metal beneath him, and the wind tears angrily at his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His next shout feels more like a scream, desperate and frightened and tearing his throat on the way out: “Ford, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Come on! Stanford, you can’t do this to me, not again—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanford! Sta—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Something slams into him, and he hits the deck hard. His first instinct is, naturally, to punch—but he doesn’t get that far. As soon as he tries to scramble to his feet, a knee wedges itself into his back and two hands clamp onto his shoulders and press him down. A low, dangerous growl reverberates around him, and he freezes. Shit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>...are there werewolves this far out in the ocean?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when he cranes to see over his shoulder, decidedly ignoring the spike of growling he gets in response, he does not see a werewolf. Instead, he sees—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ford?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford doesn’t even bother looking at him. He crouches low over Stan, his eyes darting from the deck to the ocean to the sky. His chest heaves around stuttered gulps of breath, and despite all those angry noises he’s making, he looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The sight sends a jolt of shock through Stan. Anything that could get his brother this worked up is something that needs to be dealt with right now, and preferably with a shotgun. He rapidly rakes his eyes over Ford, seeking out any obvious blood or injuries, and finds nothing. That’s a relief, however small.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ford…?” he tries again, pressing his palms to the deck and attempting to lift himself. Ford shoves him back down. Ooo-kay, not getting up anytime soon, right. He forces himself to relax, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Ford, I need you to talk to me, bud. I can’t help you fight if you don’t tell me what it is we’re fightin’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford ignores him again. Fuckin’ rude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” Stan snaps his fingers and sees Ford’s eyes dart, however briefly, in his direction. His pupils are blown wide with fear, and Stan’s heart sinks. He knows that look. Whatever Ford’s seeing, wherever he is right now—it isn’t the Stan o’ War. Stan’s brought Ford down from flashbacks before, but this is different (this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrifying), </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he feels suddenly and certainly adrift. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, first things first: he glances at Ford’s hip and sees that his brother is armed. That makes things a whole lot trickier—especially if Ford thinks he’s an enemy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, okay, fantastic,” Stan breathes, pressing his forehead to the deck. “Ford? Hey, Ford, it’s me. It’s Stanley. I’m not gonna hurt you. Nobody is. We’re both safe, we’re on the Stan o’ War; it’s just you and me here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford doesn’t respond, and his knee is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>starting to hurt where it jabs against Stan’s back—but Stan doesn’t dare move, not yet. He’s seen firsthand how fast Ford can draw and shoot if he feels threatened and, believe it or not, Stan’s actually had his fill of being on the wrong side of his brother’s weird sci-fi guns. He’s pretty sure the one Ford has now is his laser cannon, and it definitely doesn’t look like it’s set to stun.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re makin’ me nervous, buddy,” Stan says, watching Ford out of the corner of his eye. He still isn’t focusing on Stan—his eyes are everywhere </span>
  <em>
    <span>but </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stan, in fact—and his fingers tremble where they clench Stan’s shoulders. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Can I get up? ...</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sixer, </span>
  </em>
  <span>hey, I’m serious. I need to get up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford stiffens, and then he climbs to his feet in an unfairly smooth motion (seriously, what old man moves that fast?) before reaching down and hauling Stan up after him. Stan winces. Man, he isn’t as good at the whole being-violently-tackled-and-held-down thing as he used to be. Well, that, and the Stan o’ War isn’t exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>soft. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He braces his hands against his lower back, but before he even has time to stretch, Ford grabs his shoulder and tugs him forward. Stan stumbles after him—he’s vaguely annoyed with the manhandling, but hell, at least he’s on his two feet now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford drags him downstairs, slamming the door shut behind them and flipping all three locks. Hrm. That’s disconcerting. Stan doesn’t particularly enjoy being locked into places, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ford knows that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to do that,” he says, and Ford’s eyes snap to him. He holds his hands up, palms out. “Nobody’s coming for us. Nobody’s on the ship but you and me, I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford tears his eyes away from Stan’s, beginning to prowl around the cabin—and </span>
  <em>
    <span>prowl </span>
  </em>
  <span>really is the only word for it. He moves lightly, his steps nothing but a quiet rasp against the rug underfoot and his gaze focusing with predatory ferocity on every corner of the room before moving on. He keeps his hands at his sides (near his gun, Stan notices, albeit not on the grip quite yet). He doesn’t watch Stan the way he would an enemy, which is comforting, Stan supposes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But if Ford doesn’t see him as enemy, then what </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>he see?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stanford,” Stan says, and Ford’s eyes dart towards him again. Good. His name, at least, seems to be capable of consistently gripping his attention. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford gives the cabin one last cursory sweep before he returns to Stan’s side, and then abruptly reaches for Stan’s jacket. Stan pushes his hands away and finds himself pinned with a withering glare—but there’s still terror there, beneath Ford’s irritation, and it breaks Stan’s heart. He wishes he knew what his brother was so afraid of. He wishes he could make it </span>
  <em>
    <span>better.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright,” he mutters, unzipping his jacket and shucking it off. “See? Not armed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford’s eyes flick across his chest and sides, and he circles Stan to check his back, too. Then, so quietly Stan can barely hear it, Ford says something. The only problem is that that </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>is in an utterly alien language, and Stan hasn’t the faintest idea what it means. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” he asks, and Ford jumps, like he hadn’t even realized he’d spoken. “What’d you say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not hurt,” Ford murmurs. “You’re...not hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ford must have heard him shouting on deck and assumed that he’d been attacked. No wonder he’s so damn jumpy. He’s paranoid enough as is, but to have heard Stan screaming for him like that—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesus. Stan would have freaked, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, I’m not hurt.” Stan reaches out, and Ford grabs his hand and pulls him further into the cabin. “Hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think I was. I was scared because I couldn’t find you, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, well. Ford seems to be done talking for now—and he doesn’t seem particularly comforted by Stan’s words, either. He pushes Stan into the bathroom and then shuts and locks </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>door, too. He keeps Stan behind him, nudging him away from the door until Stan damn near trips into their shower. It’s a tiny bathroom, and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>certainly </span>
  </em>
  <span>not large enough for two grown men to stay here for any length of time. Unfortunately, that seems to be exactly what Ford intends for them to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After ascertaining that Stan hasn’t tripped and cracked his head open on the shower—that’d be just his luck, wouldn’t it?—Ford turns back to the bathroom door and settles in to glare at it. Stan groans and sits down in the shower, leaning against the porcelain wall and studying his brother. Great. This is really—this is great. Usually, he can calm Ford down with a few grounding touches and gentle assurances. This Ford does not, however, seem particularly willing to be calmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wish I knew what you were thinkin’, Six,” Stan says, rubbing his jaw. Staring at the back of Ford’s head offers no helpful clues. “You wanna talk to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford doesn’t even humor him with a glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Stan blows a breath out, tugging his knit hat off of his head and wringing it between his hands. Ford had </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>mentioned getting flashbacks like this. Is this even a flashback? Or has Stan really pushed his brother to a psychotic break? His throat tightens at the thought, and he takes a shaky breath to settle himself. Ford’s going to be fine. Stan will make sure of it. They’re going to figure this out—whatever </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to think through the facts logically, the way Ford’s always harping on him to do. Fact one: he couldn’t find Ford earlier, which is </span>
  <em>
    <span>weird. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Clearly, Ford was onboard, but he hadn’t responded until Stan had panicked. Was he hiding on purpose? If that’s the case, was he already in the throes of—of </span>
  <em>
    <span>this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and then Stan and went and made it even worse?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ugh, no, stop with the guilt. Facts now, self-flagellation later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fact two: Ford is petrified because his paranoia is rearing its savage head. This happens from time to time. The good news is that they know how to deal with it: firm, logical reassurances usually do the trick. Ford’s logic is an anchor to him, and he trusts it when he trusts nothing (and no one) else. Only...only, well, Ford doesn’t seem to be thinking very logically at the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fact three: Ford isn’t paying a damn lick of attention to him. There’s nothing Stan can do to help until he can catch and keep his brother’s focus—so that’s just what he intends to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fact four: Stan’s usual platitudes aren’t working. This calls for improvisation. Fortunately, he’s always been pretty good at making stuff up on the fly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, buddy,” he mutters, and then he steps forward and sets a hand between Ford’s shoulders. Ford flinches, but he doesn’t look away from the door. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Stanford.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford glances at him, eyes narrowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There we go. Hey, just look at me, okay? Nothing’s comin’ through that door. There isn’t anything on this ship that wants to hurt us. We are </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford tries to glance away again, but Stan shakes his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Ford, look </span>
  <em>
    <span>here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m real. I need you to focus on me right now. I need you to listen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unease flickers through Ford’s eyes, but he doesn’t look away again, and relief floods through Stan. He offers Ford the best smile he can, given their circumstances, and squeezes his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” he says. “Good, that’s real good. You don’t have to be afraid of anything out there. If anything—and I mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything—</span>
  </em>
  <span>tried to hurt you or me, bro, you know we’d kick its ass. We’re Pineses! So you got nothin’ to be scared of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford bites his lip, folding his arms across his chest. The muscles of his back and shoulders are tense beneath Stan’s hands, drawn tight with fear, and his eyes dart towards the door again—but they return to Stan before he can mention it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s scarin’ you?” Stan asks more quietly. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he knows the specifics of Ford’s fears, he’ll be able to ease them more quickly—but he doubts Ford is going to be very forthcoming. Those doubts are confirmed when Ford shuffles his feet, his gaze dropping to the floor and his shoulders hunching. He won’t meet Stan’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan breathes out, patting Ford’s shoulder. “Okay. Okay, not yet, that’s okay. Can we at least sit down?” He tugs Ford’s sleeve, pulling him away from the door. “Come on, sit down with me. I’m too old for all this standin’ up crap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes some maneuvering, but Stan finally manages to sit down in the shower, and he drags Ford down with him. Even so, Ford stays tense, his knees pulled up to his chest and his eyes riveted on the door. Stan knocks their knees together, then reaches over and loops an arm around his shoulders to pull him closer. Ford doesn’t lean against Stan—he’s not there quite yet—but he doesn’t try to squirm away, either, so Stan considers it a win.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did I ever tell you,” he starts, “about the time Mabel got me over my fear of heights…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He talks for a long time—long enough for his throat to get scratchy and dry. He’d really like some water, but every time he so much as </span>
  <em>
    <span>looks </span>
  </em>
  <span>at the door for too long, Ford gets all jumpy-eyed again. Fortunately, as long as Stan is still and relaxed next to him, talking nonchalantly, Ford seems content to watch him and the door in equal turns. He gradually begins to relax, his body slumping against Stan’s as his breathing evens out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Feelin’ better?” Stan murmurs when Ford’s head finally comes to rest on his shoulder. He reaches up, smoothing down his brother’s flyaway curls. “You wanna talk now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...I’m sorry,” Ford rasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan tugs his hair gently. “Hey, no, none of that crap. You know I don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tackled you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, okay,” Stan amends, “you can be sorry for that part.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford laughs—a wet, miserable little sound—and turns his face further into Stan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I’m so—</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m so—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey—hey, hey, it’s okay.” Stan sits up, turning so he can pull Ford more securely into his arms. His brother curls against his chest, fingers twisting into Stan’s shirt as his shoulders shake. His tears are damp against the crook of Stan’s throat, and his muffled whimpers break Stan’s heart just as efficiently as any sledgehammer. “Ford, it’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not okay! I hurt—I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, I scared you, I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little, but—listen, it’s nothing I can’t handle, and I know you didn’t mean to.” He squeezes Ford tightly. “But, if it makes you feel better, then I forgive you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, you don’t get to decide what I </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Poindexter.” He ruffles Ford’s hair roughly before knocking their foreheads together. “You’re forgiven. Suck it up and stop apologizing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope, no buts. Would you forgive me if I accidentally hurt you because of a flashback?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford scowls. “Of course I would, Stanley, but that’s hardly—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s no different. Why the hell wouldn’t I forgive you, huh? You were freaking out!” He pauses, then adds, “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>freaking out. What do I need to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t—” Ford presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, taking a shuddery breath. His voice cracks again when he speaks. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I thought I was over this, I thought I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>done. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It wasn’t supposed to happen after I came home. Things were supposed to be better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ford? What’s happening?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford’s fingers curl, digging his nails desperately into the skin above his right eye. Stan grabs his hands and pulls them away from his face, trapping them between his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says firmly, squeezing Ford’s hands. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t help! I’m a monster!” Ford cries, finally, trying to wrench his hands away from Stan. Stan refuses to allow it, and Ford snarls in frustration—the sound has a distinctly inhuman edge to it, one that lifts the hairs on the back of Stan’s neck. “I’m a </span>
  <em>
    <span>freak, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’m just—I’m just an animal, a stupid animal, and I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stan hisses, anger searing through his chest. “Don’t you dare say shit like that about yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s true, don’t you see? When I’m like—</span>
  <em>
    <span>that—” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ford spits the word like acid. “—I can’t think straight. I can’t think of anything but hiding, or—or running away, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>h-hurting people—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like that? What do you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>like that?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stan demands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I just was!” Ford finally manages to tug his hands out of Stan’s, and he gestures wildly with them. “I—it’s like a flashback, but it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse, </span>
  </em>
  <span>because I can’t think my way through it. I lose everything. I can’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk, </span>
  </em>
  <span>half the time, let alone rationalize. It hasn’t been that bad since I was in 75~A, and I don’t know why it’s worse now! Everything’s fine. Everything’s perfect. Why can’t I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking—” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford breaks off around a sob, and Stan hauls him into a hug again. He rocks them both back and forth as Ford weeps, whispering soothing nonsense into his hair and rubbing slow circles between his shoulders. His brother feels so small in his arms, tucked tightly into himself as he falls apart. Stan catches each shattered piece and holds it close, ready to help Ford put himself back together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not a monster,” he murmurs, and Ford gasps in little shuddering breaths. “Never, </span>
  <em>
    <span>never. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re my brother. You’d never hurt anybody if you didn’t think you had to, not unless it was an accident. I know you. You can be an asshole sometimes, but you’re not something </span>
  <em>
    <span>monstrous. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And freak? C’mon, that’s unoriginal. Maybe you are a freak. So what? I don’t care. Dipper and Mabel don’t care. Anybody who loves you, they don’t care—and you shouldn’t, either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford pushes his head up, tucking it beneath Stan’s chin. Shivers wrack him, and Stan wishes he could slip away and grab one of their jackets—but he gets the feeling Ford wouldn’t react very well to that, right now. So instead, he grips Ford more tightly, like if he holds hard enough he can drive away all the cold and the fear through sheer force of will.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not an animal, either,” he adds. “I mean, unless you’re countin’ humans as animals, which I guess ya can. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Seriously? You and I both know that’s about as far from truth as you can get.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I—” Ford sniffles, rubbing his cheek against Stan’s shoulder. “I acted stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were having a flashback, Six,” Stan repeats, trying not to let his exasperation leak into his voice—but man, Ford can be stubborn sometimes. He doesn’t ever get mad at Stan for having a flashback, no matter how stupid </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>acts. Why should he be this harsh with himself? “Nobody’s the epitome of logic when they’re re-experiencing the worst moments of their life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan tries to lean back to catch Ford’s eyes, but Ford clings and shoves his face further into the crook of Stan’s neck. “Not like what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not like a flashback.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...what is it like?” Stan prompts, when it becomes clear Ford won’t volunteer the information on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford hesitates. “You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The only thing I think is </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid </span>
  </em>
  <span>is your perpetual insistence that I’m gonna think you’re stupid,” Stan says flatly. “That is never going to happen. Not on your life, buddy.” Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>hesitates, bumping his chin against Ford’s forehead. “Did I do something to make you feel like I would think that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? No, no, Stanley. I’m just—” Ford falters. “I’m ashamed. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan squeezes him, then says firmly, “You aren’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford hesitates, then manages a tiny nod. “Okay,” he whispers. “Alright. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anytime.” Stan ruffles his hair, smoothing it away from his forehead and coaxing him to look up. He knows Ford may not believe it, not now, not yet, but at least he’s not arguing the point. “So, smart guy? You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grimacing, Ford says, “It’s difficult to explain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we’ve got time. Although I have to admit, I’d be more comfortable if we could do this at the table, instead of hangin’ out on the bathroom floor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! Oh, yes, of course, I’m so sorry I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’d I say about apologizin’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not to do it anymore,” Ford mumbles. He climbs to his feet, offering Stan a hand up. “You’re sure you’re not hurt, though? You hit the deck kind of hard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure. I’m a little sore, but when am I not, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford looks miserably at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you’re pathetic.” Stan reaches for his brother’s face, squishing his cheeks together until he looks a little less like a kicked dog and more like a mildly annoyed pufferfish. “I told you, you don’t need to feel bad. You weren’t thinking clearly. Besides, I was the one who got you all worked up, shoutin’ for you like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, that was—” Ford shudders. “That was a tad distressing. Why did you sound like that? If you weren’t hurt, why did you…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was scared,” Stan admits gruffly, folding his arms over his chest and looking away. “Couldn’t find ya anywhere. Thought maybe you’d gone overboard, or something had grabbed you, or—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Stanley.” Ford has the nerve to look even guilter, drat him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan flips the locks on the bathroom door, leading the way back to the table and slumping into his seat. “‘s okay. Where were you hidin’, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford glances up, at the ceiling of their cabin, and Stan follows his gaze. His eyes trace the outlines of the metal panels that make up the ceiling, and he sees one that doesn’t quite...look right…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have </span>
  <em>
    <span>got </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be shitting me,” Stan says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just a minor modification,” Ford says hastily. “A little, um, attic space. It doesn’t compromise the ship’s structural integrity at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last time we were at port.” Ford studies his hands, shamefaced. “I was gonna use it to store some of my recent specimens so I could stop trekking down to the cargo hold every time I wanted to study one. I did mean to tell you, but—well, we set sail in quite a hurry, since </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone </span>
  </em>
  <span>decided to irritate the city’s entire police department—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, don’t you make this about me,” Stan says, jabbing a finger at his brother. He can’t quite stop a smile from flickering across his face, though. Man, that had been a good police chase. “You’re tellin’ me you decided to cram yourself into our new attic, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I said,” Ford mumbles, “‘s stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stanford Pines, if I hear you call yourself stupid one more time—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry! Sorry. I just—I know it wasn’t logical, or good, or sensible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So why’d you do it? You said you weren’t having a flashback?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not exactly.” Ford takes a deep breath, then explains, “I spent three years in Dimension 75~A on a planet named Ferot. There were no sapient lifeforms there—only flora and fauna. I did alright for a while, but I couldn’t seem to find my way to another interdimensional rift, and so I stayed far longer than I intended. It was okay for the first few months, but—years, Stanley! Years without anyone to talk to, without any civilization whatsoever, without any way to move </span>
  <em>
    <span>on—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy,” Stan murmurs, although his horror spikes sharply at the thought of his brother so scared and so </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “You’re here now, Ford, you’re with me and you’re safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford wrings his hands, looking anxiously at the cabin door. “Yes. Yes, of course. I assimilated as best I could, but when you’re assimilating with wild animals—w-well. I wasn’t normal after that. I wasn’t right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did what you had to do to survive. Don’t feel bad about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford makes a noncommittal noise, his eyes unfocused. “It was a strange few years. It wasn’t completely horrible, but...well. I carried a lot of bad habits through the multiverse once I left Ferot behind. Sometimes those habits kept me alive, so I suppose they weren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad; they didn’t have any place in a civilized society, though, so I did my best to rid myself of them. It took a while, but it worked, for the most part.”</span>
</p><p><span>His eyes sharpen, then, and he looks back up at Stan. “Or I </span><em><span>thought </span></em><span>it worked. I haven’t acted like that in years.</span> <span>I never expected to again, or I swear I would have told you before something like this happened.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“When you’re like that,” Stan says, trying—for once—to pick his words carefully, “what is it like? You’re scared, is that it? So you get jumpy and hide yourself in weird attic spaces?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes. Most times, if we’re being honest,” Ford says grimly. “After I left Ferot, I used to hole up somewhere until the feeling passed. That was what I was doing when I heard you shout, and I just—god, Stanley, I thought something was </span>
  <em>
    <span>killing </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan takes a deep breath. “I know. I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be. It isn’t your fault—I should have known that disappearing would frighten you,” Ford says, shaking his head. “But when I’m in that—that ridiculous state of mind, I don’t tend to consider those things. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid animal </span>
  </em>
  <span>really is the only way to describe me when I get like that, Stanley, I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not stupid,” Stan says automatically. “Animalistic, maybe, alright. I can see why you’d think that. But you don’t need to feel bad about it—like I said, it kept you alive, and I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>glad </span>
  </em>
  <span>it did. If it happens again, okay. We’ll deal with it. Do you think it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>something that might happen again? Why did it happen this time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford’s eyes flick away, his mouth twisting—that’s a tell if Stan’s ever seen one. He’s getting ready to lie. “I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sixer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It happens </span>
  <em>
    <span>occasionally </span>
  </em>
  <span>after I have nightmares,” Ford admits grudgingly, “but like I said, nothing like </span>
  <em>
    <span>this. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I just get quiet and nervous and hide somewhere until I feel like a rational human being again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was because of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford doesn’t protest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Stan says, breath hissing between his teeth. “Shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We both messed up,” Ford says, “and we’re both forgiven, right? So we don’t need to feel bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never seen you hiding before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kind of the idea behind </span>
  <em>
    <span>hiding, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stanley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Besides, I tend to have nightmares at night, when I’m, you know, sleeping,” Ford says, drumming his fingers on the table. “But I fell asleep at the table this afternoon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan brightens. “Seriously?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t look so happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s reason to celebrate, Six! You’re getting better at this whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleeping </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, very good,” Ford says briskly, waving him off—but there’s a pleased look in his eyes, something bordering on </span>
  <em>
    <span>proud.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Of course, it would have been better if it hadn’t led to this whole ordeal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what? I think I’m actually glad it did. This was something I needed to know about, Ford.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean for it to affect you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter if it affects me. It affects </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I’m supposed to be taking care of you, ain’t that right, you knucklehead?” Stan rises and hooks his arm around Ford’s neck, scrubbing his knuckles over Ford’s scalp. Ford yelps, trying valiantly to pry his head away. “Don’t keep secrets anymore!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, alright!” Ford laughs, pushing at Stan’s hands. “I’m sorry! Get off, already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan abruptly releases him, and at the same time Ford yanks himself backwards—this, of course, proceeds to throw his weight against the back of the chair and send it (and him) crashing to the floor with a startled yelp. Serves him right, dirty </span>
  <em>
    <span>secret-keeper. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Karma,” Stan says, dusting his hands off before setting them on his hips and looking down at his brother. He arches an eyebrow. “So next time this happens, do I get to help you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Ford says, seemingly content to lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling, “I don’t know if you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan lays down next to him. From here, he can see the stark outline of Ford’s new hiding spot even more clearly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A new attic. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This guy, jeez. “Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not friendly when I’m like that. I don’t find people comforting, and I can be...unfortunately aggressive. Really, it might be best for you to leave me alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t much like the sound of that. I get it if you don’t wanna talk, or have me all up in your space, but—I’d like to be nearby, anyway. I’d like to know where you are.” A shiver of cold fear chases itself down his spine. “I don’t like not knowing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford winces. “I—I know. I really do feel awful about that, I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just don’t do it again and we’ll call it even, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not something I can control that easily. When it happens, I just—hiding, getting somewhere safe, it’s the only thing I think about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not true,” Stan says simply. “Today you thought about me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford snorts. “Because you were screaming bloody murder on deck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll try not to do that again,” Stan allows, “if you’ll promise me one thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just promise that you won’t hide anywhere I can’t find you, Sixer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small smile flickers across Ford’s face. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, alright. I think I can do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Promise?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ford holds his pinky out, and Stan hooks his own around it. “It’s a pinky promise, Stanley.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. as good a hiding place as any</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <b>warnings: references to ptsd + flashbacks + memory issues, self-loathing, anxiety</b>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The second time Ford vanishes into thin air, Stan panics a little less. He knows Ford is probably just holing up somewhere, laying low while he sorts his own head out. But the silence around him is oppressive, still, and anxious thoughts are quick to intrude on him: <em> What if he left you? What if you just imagined him? What if you never got him back from the portal and this is all some silly </em>dream?</p>
<p>“Sixer?” he calls, peering around their bedroom. No one responds. He takes a deep breath. “Right, okay. Hide and seek it is.”</p>
<p>It’s early morning, still, which means Ford must have woken up from a nightmare some time ago. He probably won’t have gone far—leaving the cabin would mean walking across the dark, open deck, and he doubts Ford would have wanted that. In all likelihood, he’s nearby, and Stan knows just the place he’s going to look first.</p>
<p>“Morning, Sixer,” he calls to their quiet little cabin as he leaves the bedroom, stretching leisurely. He glances up at the ceiling as he enters the kitchenette; the panels around their new attic look undisturbed, but that doesn’t mean Ford isn’t squirreled up behind them. Still, he decides not to poke his head in quite yet—the longer he gives Ford to adjust to his presence, the better. After all, he doesn’t particularly want to get body-slammed into the deck again.</p>
<p>(That, and he doesn’t want Ford to feel smothered. Stan has a bad habit of doing that, see—of making people feel <em> smothered. </em>He doesn’t dare risk it again. Not with Ford.)</p>
<p>Humming under his breath, Stan begins to prepare breakfast. It’s been months since they were last in port, and their supplies have thinned out. They’ll need to set a course for land, soon, unless they want to survive off of Ford’s nasty nutritional pills. Today, however, breakfast consists of actual food—fried herring, sliced apples, and toast smeared with peanut butter and Ford’s favorite blackberry jam. Stan makes (perhaps a little idealistically) two plates, setting both down on the table in the hopes that the smell of fresh food will draw his brother out of hiding.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, it does not.</p>
<p>Sighing, Stan finishes off his own breakfast and slides his plate into the sink with a clatter. He supposes he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up. Ford’s never been a particularly food-motivated individual—oh, unless—!</p>
<p>Stan leans up and rummages through the cabinets, pulling out a bag of jellybeans and rattling them. “Fooord! You want some jellybeans? They’re all yours if you just come out, come out, wherever you are!”</p>
<p>Jeez. He feels like he’s calling a cat to dinner or something. Ford must be equally unimpressed by the notion, because he stays very decidedly hidden—but hell, it was worth a shot. Stan shakes a few jellybeans onto Ford’s plate, anyway. The guy’s gonna need a pick-me-up after this, ‘cause wherever he is, he’s gotta be stressed all to hell. Stan wishes, however hopelessly, that Ford could just come to him instead of hiding. He knows why his brother can’t, though, and he tries his best not to let it weigh on him. Ford can’t trust people, not completely, not ever, no matter how many times they prove themselves to him (and, he’s assured Stan more than once, Stan has done <em> more </em>than enough to earn any rational person’s trust). </p>
<p>That’s the thing about paranoia, though, huh? It’s not always rational.</p>
<p>So yeah, Stan gets it. Ford’s been stabbed in the back one too many times, and there’s damage in him that nobody’s ever gonna be able to undo—not even his own twin. It’s not Stan’s fault. It’s <em> not. </em>(Okay, so it is, maybe a little bit, even though Ford would bend over backwards to convince him otherwise. But who broke his project and his dreams the first time, huh? Who shoved him through a portal and into another dimension? Who refused to hold his hand for the stupid zodiac?)</p>
<p>Point <em> being, </em> Stan doesn’t wanna make him uncomfortable by entering whatever safe space he’s got set up for himself. He just—he just <em> really </em> wants to know where he is, and that he’s safe and not in the middle of an awful flashback or something. If he could just <em> see </em>him, just for a second, that would be enough. He’d scoot right off after that and leave Ford to it. Stan manages to leave his own anxiety alone long enough to shower and dress for the day, but after that, he’s done waiting. He needs to know where his brother is before this creeping fear in his chest froths into a panic.</p>
<p>“Alright, buddy, comin’ up,” Stan says, balancing on one of their chairs and reaching up to pry the metal panel of their attic off. Ford had rigged it to stay in place with magnets, so getting his fingers hooked under the damn thing is a hassle and a half. Once he manages it, though, it pops off easily enough, and he lets it drop to the floor with a ringing <em> clang! </em>The space above the ceiling is dark and musty and—</p>
<p>And crammed full of specimens, with neither hide nor hair of Ford in sight.</p>
<p>“Oh, come on,” Stan hisses, jumping down from his chair. His anxiety spikes, and he takes a few focused breaths to settle it. Ford’s still here. He <em> is, </em> and he promised not to hide anywhere Stan couldn’t find him. Stan just has to—he just has to stay calm. Where would <em> he </em>hide if he were petrified and paranoid, and also a huge nerd?</p>
<p>This time, the search doesn’t take nearly as long. Hiding is meant to make Ford feel safe—that means he’s going to be somewhere small and quiet and dark. There are quite a few places like that on the Stan o’ War, but Stan’s still convinced Ford wouldn’t have left the cabin. That narrows things down quite a bit. He returns to their bedroom, drops to his knees, peers under the bunks, and—</p>
<p>“Hey, buddy,” he breathes, relief washing over him. “Found ya.”</p>
<p>Ford watches him warily, the light glinting off of his glasses. He’s crammed himself beneath Stan’s bunk, pressing his back to the wall and huddling beneath his heavy coat. He looks unharmed, although he’s as tense as Stan’s ever seen him. The sight makes his chest ache; he wishes there was something more he could do to soothe Ford’s obvious distress, but this is a part of his brother he doesn’t know and doesn’t understand—not yet. </p>
<p>For a minute, he’s torn. He wants to stay here—wants to soothe his brother’s fretting with dumb jokes and old stories—but he also knows Ford might not want that. Space might be the best thing for him, and Stan’s presence might be causing him nothing but anxiety. He wishes they’d talked about this more before, but Ford hadn’t wanted to. It was embarrassing, he’d said, and anyway he’d been hungry so could they <em> please </em> just stop talking and make dinner already? He’d also claimed that it probably wouldn’t happen <em> like that </em>again, as long as Stan wasn’t screaming or bleeding or otherwise freaking Ford right the fuck out, and so Stan shouldn’t have to worry about it.</p>
<p>Ha. Ha ha ha. </p>
<p>So here they are again, weeks later, and here Stan is again, adrift and confused. Ford was right about one thing, at least—this isn’t <em> like that. </em> This Ford isn’t distraught and panicking. He’s just quiet and nervous and overwhelmed. Thing is, Stan doesn’t care if Ford’s panicking or nervous or anything in between. He wants to be there for his brother no matter what. But, heh, there he goes again: clingy, smothering, <em> overbearing.  </em></p>
<p>“Okay,” Stan murmurs, and then he blows out a breath and straightens back up. “You settle down there, Six. I’ll leave you to it. Take as much time as you need—breakfast'll be in the fridge when you’re ready for it.”</p>
<p>As soon as Stan takes a step towards the door, though, a hand lashes out and snatches his ankle. He nearly jumps out of his own skin, biting back a swear. Moses, that’s like something straight out of a horror movie. If that <em> ever </em>happens in the middle of the night, he’s gonna have a heart attack—right after he shrieks and stomps his brother into the ground, probably. </p>
<p>“What?” Stan asks, turning back towards the bed. Ford releases him, and his hand disappears without a word. Stan balances awkwardly on one leg, lifting a foot so he can rub his ankle with his dirty pink slipper. “You need somethin’ under there?”</p>
<p>Ford makes the world’s strangest noise—a soft, clicking warble that is arguably adorable but also Definitely Not Human. Unfortunately, Stan <em> still </em>doesn’t speak Definitely Not Human (maybe he should ask Ford for a lesson or two) and he has literally no idea what his brother is trying to convey. He crouches again, peeking under the bed and arching an eyebrow. Ford studies the floorboards like they’ve suddenly become the most interesting thing on the boat.</p>
<p>“I’m not bringin’ you breakfast, if that’s what you want,” Stan says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Ain’t your maid. I’m just gonna be out in the cabin, okay? Come find me if you need me.”</p>
<p>But again, as soon as he turns to go, he’s got six chilly fingers wrapped around his ankle. He groans and slumps down to sit next to the bed, leaning back against it. Ford chirps. Ford fucking <em> chirps </em>at him, and he has the nerve to sound pleased when he does. Stan shakes his head, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. Whatever he brought through that portal wasn’t all human—but he can’t say he minds it too awful much.</p>
<p>“So, uh—I guess I’ll stay,” he says. Ford does not indicate whether this is the correct decision or not. Stan chews his bottom lip. “If you want me gone, just say.”</p>
<p>The space underneath the bed remains silent.</p>
<p>“Okay. Cool.” Stan feels shittily good about the whole arrangement. He shouldn’t feel happy, not when Ford is like this, not when Ford is <em> scared, </em> but—god, it’s nice to be needed (to be <em> wanted) </em>by somebody who hasn’t ever needed him before. Still, he hopes his being here is actually doing some good. If nothing else, maybe he can distract his brother from whatever thoughts are plaguing him. “How’d you get down here so quietly?” he muses aloud. “I must be gettin’ senile to sleep through somebody climbin’ under my bed in the middle of the night. You know that’s kinda creepy, right?”</p>
<p>Ford, predictably, doesn’t respond.</p>
<p>“Although,” Stan says, snorting, “it would definitely be creepier if I saw you crawl out of the ceiling when I went to make breakfast.”</p>
<p>God, his brother is <em> so weird. </em>Stan loves the shit out of him.</p>
<p>“You ever, uh—” Stan chuckles. “You ever seen that horror movie? <em> The Exorcist? </em> ‘s got this girl who, like, crabwalks down the stairs. It’s the creepiest thing. Wendy talked me into letting the kids watch it one night, and you can imagine how they handled <em> that. </em>Freaked me out, and I’m a grown-ass man.”</p>
<p>Ford shuffles under the bed, and Stan dares to think that he edges closer.</p>
<p>“They refused to sleep alone that night. Made me set up a whole pillow fort in the living room for ‘em, and wouldn’t let me turn off the lights, either. Damn rascals.” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Heh. But I guess that’s what I get for not checkin’ the movie rating before turning it on. Hey, would you wanna watch a scary movie tonight? It’s almost Halloween, and we’ve got the laptop set up, and—y’know, might be fun. I can make popcorn. We’ve got a few cups of kernels left.”</p>
<p>In reply, Ford wiggles out from underneath the bed and sits up. He looks cautiously at Stan, then around the room—only once he’s assured himself that they’re safe does he lean back against the bed. Stan doesn’t miss the way Ford keeps side-eyeing him as he continues to speak. If his brother needs to watch him like a hawk to feel safe, then damn, Stan’s not gonna complain. He’s not the one with a weird <em> thing </em>about people looking at him. </p>
<p>“Buuut we’re definitely gonna need to head back towards land soon,” Stan admits, “before we run out of popcorn, and, y’know, food in general. Hey, but if worst comes to worst, we can always live off of your pills and your nine thousand jelly beans, right?” He shakes his head, amused. “You got some kinda sweet tooth, Six.”</p>
<p>For several minutes, Stan talks, and Ford watches and waits and listens. Then, gradually, Ford inches closer and leans against him—this, at least, is familiar. Relieved, Stan reaches up to ruffle his brother’s hair, and Ford sighs contentedly and nuzzles into the touch. <em> Aggressive, </em>pfft. As if. Ford’s a big sweetheart like this; he isn’t even making any smartass comments! Honestly, Stan could get used to his brother bein’ this way, but…</p>
<p>But nah. Maybe not. He’d miss Ford’s wit and confidence far, far too much. </p>
<p>(And as nice as it is to be needed? Well, it’s a million times nicer to see Ford <em> happy.) </em></p>
<p>Still, this quiet uncertainty is a part of his brother, too, and Stan cares for it as much as he does any other part of Ford. Really, if this is what Ford needs to feel safe, Stan’s all for it. It’s better than some <em> other </em>habits Ford has picked up.</p>
<p>“Feelin’ better, bud?” Stan asks as Ford’s head comes to rest on his shoulder. Ford yawns at him. “Yeah, I bet you’re tired after hidin’ out all night. What do you say you eat some breakfast and then go back to sleep?”</p>
<p>Stan pushes himself up, despite Ford’s whine of complaint, and offers his brother a hand. Ford studies it for a moment, and then, after a quick glance around the room, takes it and hauls himself off of the ground. He prowls in front of Stan, his steps light and quick, but he hesitates at the door. </p>
<p>“It’s okay,” Stan says gently. “There’s nothin’ out there. It’s safe, if you wanna go eat.”</p>
<p>Ford doesn’t move. He shifts his weight uncertainly from foot to foot, then jams his hands into the pockets of his jacket and heads back to the bed. He sits down next to it, pulls his knees to his chest, and frowns. He looks expectantly at the floor beside him, then back at Stan. </p>
<p>“Me first, then,” Stan decides, and he reaches for the doorknob. A low, sharp growl brings him to a standstill, and when he looks over his shoulder, Ford is watching him with narrowed eyes. His growl cuts off with a sharp huff when Stan glances at him, and he looks so damn <em> petulant </em>that Stan almost wants to laugh. “Don’t you growl at me, you big grouch. I’m just goin’ outside.”</p>
<p>Ford does not seem particularly pleased with this statement. He sighs like <em> Stan’s </em>the one being obstinate, then crosses the room, grabs Stan’s sleeve, and tugs. Stan tugs the other direction. </p>
<p>“Listen, I love you, but I’m not gonna stay cooped up in here for hours,” Stan says. They don’t even have a TV in the bedroom, for Pete’s sake. “You don’t need to, either. The ship’s safe, I promise. Let me show you.”</p>
<p>Instead, Ford bares his teeth, growls a wordless demand, and pulls hard enough to send Stan stumbling back a few steps. He doesn’t let Stan catch his balance, either; he sets his jaw in determination and drags him away from the door with an alarming amount of strength. Stan doesn’t like manhandling, but maybe he could tolerate it, this bein’ Ford and all—it’s the idea <em> behind </em>the thing that really sets him bristling. He can’t let Ford make a habit of pushing him around whenever he’s like this, or he’ll lose whatever tentative control of the situation he has. He’s sure, given the choice, that Ford would hide the both of them away for hours—and Stan just can’t handle that. </p>
<p>Besides, the paranoid guy in the midst of an animalistic regression? Yeah, he doesn’t get to be in charge.</p>
<p>“Ford!” Stan’s voice comes out sharper than he meant it to, but it does the trick—Ford freezes, his eyes widening. Seizing on his distraction, Stan yanks his arm away and glares. <em> “Enough. </em>I said I’m not staying here.”</p>
<p>Maybe it would be easier if he did. Maybe it would be better to let Ford trust the world in his own time. It would certainly be less of a fight—and if Ford wants to stay in here all morning, fine, but Stan won’t. He’ll stay nearby, if that’s what Ford needs, just not with that door closed. Enclosed rooms remind him too much of sleazy hotels, of jail cells and car trunks and underground labs.</p>
<p>But Ford has always been <em> stubborn, </em>hasn’t he? He narrows his eyes again, placing himself sulkily between Stan and the door. </p>
<p>Stan groans and drags his hands down his face, but he knows what he has to do. Drastic times call for drastic measures, and he's not above playing dirty. “Okay,” he says. “Fine. We’ll do it the hard way.”</p>
<p>Before Ford can react, Stan strides forward and wraps him up in a bear hug. He squeezes hard enough to make Ford wheeze, growling playfully and lifting him a couple of inches off of the floor. Ford reacts exactly the way Stan had hoped he would: he makes a breathless, contented sound, drops his chin onto Stan’s shoulder, and slumps bonelessly into the hold. A smile flickers across Stan’s face—deep pressure stim wins again!</p>
<p>“If anything tried to hurt you,” Stan mutters, setting Ford back down but keeping a tight hold, “I’d kill ‘em, and you know it. You’ve got nothin’ to be afraid of with me here. You can stay in here if it makes you feel safer, but I’m gonna go out into the cabin, and nothing is gonna hurt me. We’re safe here. I made sure of it.”</p>
<p>Ford presses his face to Stan’s neck, his glasses jabbing Stan’s jaw. He whines pitifully, and damn if that isn’t more effective than any of his growling. Stan could probably be convinced to stay if Ford made too many sad noises. What can he say? He’s a sucker, and he can’t stand seeing his brother miserable.</p>
<p>“Hey, that’s enough,” Stan scolds gently, cupping the back of Ford’s head and ruffling his hair. “Don’t be scared. I’ll stay where you can see me.”</p>
<p>Stan leans back, trying to extract himself from his brother’s grip with extremely limited success. Ford whines again, more insistently, and clings like a goddamned starfish. </p>
<p>“You’re gonna have to let go if you don’t wanna come with me,” Stan warns, stepping towards the door. Ford steps with him. Huh. This...might work. “C’mon, Six. Last chance. Take it or leave it.”</p>
<p>Ford grumbles wordlessly and doesn’t move.</p>
<p>“Alright, then.” This time, when Stan reaches for the doorknob, Ford doesn’t make a peep. He manages to drag them both out of the bedroom, his brother hangin’ on him like the world’s stubbornest limpet. “See? Nothing out here.”</p>
<p>That gets Ford’s attention. He snaps his head around, eyeing the kitchenette mistrustfully. He releases Stan and takes to circling the cabin, his shoulders hunched and his head low. Stan lets him—best he checks things out for himself. Maybe then he can calm down, eat something, and get the hell back to sleep. While Ford explores, Stan pours himself a mug of apple cider. He heats it in the microwave, then inhales its sharp cinnamon fragrance and sighs in bliss.</p>
<p>A few seconds after that, Ford comes to stand expectantly in front of him. </p>
<p>“What?” he asks, peering through the steam that wafts over his mug. “You want some?”</p>
<p>He pours Ford a mug, which is dutifully ignored. Ford spares it a passing glance when Stan sets it on the table, but doesn’t move to take it. Instead, he shifts his weight awkwardly on his feet. </p>
<p>“Your breakfast is over there,” Stan says, pointing. Ford blinks at him. “Buddy, I have no idea what you want.”</p>
<p>Ford crosses his arms tightly across his chest, clearing his throat. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. Finally, he shuffles forward and presses himself to Stan’s chest, his eyes skittering to the side. Stan doesn’t even think about protesting. He sets his apple cider aside and bundles Ford into his arms again, hugging him tight. Ford melts against him, sighing, and after a minute, the <em> weirdest </em>thing happens.</p>
<p>You know that thing Stan said? About the whole <em> weirdest noise ever</em>? Yeah, so update: his brother is <em> now </em>making the weirdest noise ever. The other one—the strange, clickity-clackity warble—has been knocked down a peg. This sound starts in the pit of Ford’s chest and rumbles up through his throat and jaw. It sounds like somebody digging through gravel, or like the world’s tiniest engine sputtering to life, or like—like a cat purring, if the cat was two hundred pounds and also maybe an alien. </p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Stan whispers. “Ford.”</p>
<p>Ford swallows the sound, and when Stan glances down at him, he looks abashed. His shoulders hunch a little closer to his ears, and his fingers fiddle anxiously with the buttons on his jacket.</p>
<p>“No, hey, hey, it’s fine, it’s just—” Stan laughs, cupping a hand behind Ford’s head and knocking their foreheads together. Ford’s eyes finally meet his, searching. “You sound like a cat. A really big cat.”</p>
<p>Ford squeezes his eyes shut and makes a tiny, rumbling echo of that purr again. He tucks his head beneath Stan’s chin, and Stan swallows thickly. Ford closed his eyes. Ford curled up against him. Ford came to <em> him, </em> even though he’s half out of his mind with nerves and half-remembered instincts. Ford <em> trusts </em>him like this. It’s—</p>
<p>It’s terrifying, holy shit.</p>
<p>But Stan will hold on as long as he needs to. He’ll hold on until Ford gets his feet back on Earth and remembers that the shadows aren’t always out to get him. He’ll hold on until Ford can stand in the open without shaking. He’ll hold on until Ford doesn’t need to hide in his arms anymore. Soon, his brother will stand up straight again. He’ll look at the world and all its dark, savage dangers, and he’ll laugh. He’ll find joy in the unknown as he runs after it, his hands full of pens and papers and a weird weapon or two. He’ll come back to himself, back to <em> proud </em> and <em> inquisitive </em> and <em> ambitious. </em></p>
<p>But until then? </p>
<p>Until then, Stan’s as good a hiding place as any.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey so like u know how <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drq_ww7Ytzw%22">cheetahs purr?</a> that but,,,dr. stanford,,,</p>
<p>also thaNK U for all the comments on the last chapter !!! they were super encouraging and u guys are great !!!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. and you found me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <b>warnings: blood, injuries, minor medical procedures, mentions of alcohol + alcoholism, panic attack, self-loathing, references to past abuse/torture (aka bill)</b>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stan really should have seen the signs.</p><p>Ford had been fine that morning, bright-eyed and ready to explore the port. He’d been skittish at first—the way he always is around large crowds, nowadays—but he’d warmed to the busyness readily enough. He’d chatted Stan’s ear off the whole time they were in the supermarket, doing some sorely-needed shopping. It was all “Look, Stanley, a kumquat!” and “There’s no such thing as <em>too many </em>jellybeans, Stanley, honestly—no, no, you aren’t allowed to argue, I have twelve PhDs” and “Stanley, we need more sodium citrate and formalin and, you know, maybe some ammonium nitrate while we’re at it—<em>no, </em>I’m not building a bomb, just a little grenade—and they don’t exactly sell that sort of thing at Walmart so can we take a day trip to Sigma Aldrich before we leave?<em>” </em></p><p><em> Day trip, </em>of course, being code for: “Stanley, will you please be the best twin in the multiverse and help me break into a secure scientific facility to steal ingredients for my illegal weapons manufacturing?”</p><p>And honestly, how is Stan supposed to say no to something like that? </p><p>So they take a quick day trip to Ford’s fancy-shmancy science shop, and Ford seems fine then, too. They get what they need, load up the Stan o’ War, and take the evening off. They sit down for a hot meal at the nearest diner, over which they discuss the ramifications of centrifugal force, because there’s no way in hell Stan is letting Ford talk him into taking their precious Stan o’ War anywhere <em> near </em> the Charybdis whirlpool. They can rent a boat, maybe, he concedes. <em> Maybe.  </em></p><p>They catch a movie at a nearby theatre, and it’s after that Ford starts acting <em> off. </em>He hovers closer to Stan, always just a step behind, his eyes never resting on any one spot for more than a second before moving on. His answers become slower, more distracted, as they stroll along the boardwalk. Stan passes it off as his exhaustion catching up to him—after all, the sun’s already set, and they’re both yawning widely.</p><p>It’s pathetic, Stan thinks, wryly amused. He used to be able to drink well into the night, and now he’s sleepy by sunset. Even so, life is better now than it <em> ever </em> was when he was drinking himself to death in the deserts of New Mexico. He wouldn’t trade this sleepy old life for anything. Ford stumbles along behind him as he leads the way back to the hotel, muttering quietly about <em> amplified polymerase exonuclease function </em> this and <em> mutation hotspot ribosomal RNA amplicon sequencing </em>that. It sounds just as foreign to him as any of Ford’s other alien languages do. He learned theoretical physics for this guy—he’s not about to learn cellular biology, too.</p><p>Maybe that’s why he tunes Ford out, in the end. His brother’s voice becomes background noise as the chatter of the crowd rolls over them. Seagulls flock overhead, squawking raucously, and sunscreen-smeared children galivant across the boardwalk. Something crashes behind him, and the voices of several squabbling vendors burst into the air. The smell of cotton candy and fish is almost overwhelming, here, and Stan is struck with the sudden desire for saltwater taffy. He turns to tell Ford they ought to get some, and when he does, he—</p><p>Well, he freaks out, a little bit, because Ford suddenly <em> isn’t there. </em>His heart drops like a stone, settling heavily in his gut, and his hands clench into fists. He pushes up onto his toes, craning to see over the crowds’ heads. His brother isn’t a small person by any means, and that familiar tan coat ought to be easy to spot. “Ford?” he calls. “Sixer?”</p><p>No one answers him. </p><p>The next logical step is to weave his way out of the crowd, take a seat in the sand, and whip out his phone. He dials Ford’s number, then chews the inside of his cheek as it rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and—</p><p>“Damn it, Ford,” he mutters when the phone goes to voicemail. He tries again, and gets the same response. “You’ve got to be kidding me. What do we have phones <em> for, </em>if you’re not gonna answer me?”</p><p>Unwilling to sit and wait around (he’s had thirty years too much of <em> that </em> shit), Stan dives back into the crowd. He makes his way back up the beach, his eyes flitting over everyone who passes by—but it’s getting hard to see, in the dim dusk light, and these cataracts of his sure aren’t helping anything. Man, maybe he really <em> should </em>agree to that surgery Ford’s been pestering him about. How’s he supposed to keep an eye on his brother if that eye ain’t workin’ properly, right?</p><p>Grumbling under his breath, Stan ducks into a nearby restaurant and heads for the top floor. Once there, he leans out over the balcony and scans the crowd below for that dratted brother of his. Still, he finds nothing—although the vendors he heard squabbling earlier are still at it, waving their fists at one another and swearing. Listening to them makes him feel like some kinda cat getting its fur rubbed the wrong way, and he wrinkles his nose in irritation. Swearing and shouting seldom lead to good things.</p><p>...and swearing and shouting, he realizes with dawning horror, are probably just the things that would kick Sixer’s fight-or-flight into high gear, if he was already stressed. </p><p>Biting back a swear of his own, Stan races downstairs and plunges into the crowd again. Safe and dark and quiet, he needs to find somewhere safe and dark and quiet—because that’s exactly where Ford is going to be. Unfortunately, safe and dark and quiet describes very few places on this damned beach. He scans the shore for any spot empty of people, but even the dim areas beneath the dock are crowded with drunk teenagers. </p><p>Ford’s not here, then. Panic starts as a fluttery feeling in his chest, a hundred spiders’ legs crawling across his shoulders. He scrambles off of the beach and further into the city, but there are lights everywhere—streetlights and headlights and the hideous, glowing neon lights of advertisements. 28 FLAVORS OF ICECREAM they shout at him. FRESH UP WITH 7 UP. WORLD FAMOUS FRANKFURTERS SINCE 1916. BOL’S VODKA NONSTOP. </p><p>“Ford!” he shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Stanford!”</p><p>He gets a few irritated glances from the people around him, but no response from his brother. God, he doesn’t even know where to <em> begin </em>searching. Nowhere looks safe. Nowhere feels safe. Fingers trembling, Stan dials Ford’s number again, and he—</p><p>He hears it ring. </p><p>He freezes, jerking his head up and straining to hear over the voices that surround him. Ford’s ringtone is a dull, distant chirp of noise, and Stan fights his way towards it. He bolts across the street as soon as it looks like no cars will flatten him; when Ford’s phone stops ringing, he calls again, and then he follows that tune up the street and into a dark alleyway.</p><p>The walls crowd in on him, and the scent of garbage is overwhelming and sickeningly familiar. A scrappy orange cat darts past him when he skids to a stop in the alley’s entrance, its ears pinned flat and its eyes wide. Stan fights to catch his breath—he’s not as spry as he used to be, and his panic isn’t helping, either—before he steps forward. Something wet squelches under his boot. He grimaces and very decisively does not look down. </p><p>“Ford…?” he calls, his voice wobbling. “Stanford? Sixer, buddy?”</p><p>Something moves, there in the dark, and then Stan sees him—he sees his brother, wide-eyed and terrified. Before he knows it, Ford is lunging at him. Stan opens his arms without a second thought, letting Ford crash into him and stumbling back several feet. Ford’s arms seize tightly around him, and Stan can feel him shaking. His breath comes in erratic gasps, and there’s a frantic whine on each exhale. </p><p>“Oh—oh, hey, hey, Ford, shh, it’s okay.” Stan hugs him tightly, one hand coming up to thread through his brother’s hair. “Shh. I’m here, I’ve gotcha, I’m right here.”</p><p>Ford squeezes his eyes shut and crams his face into Stan’s shoulder, fingers clutching desperately at the back of his jacket. He pulls them both further into the alleyway, and Stan doesn’t have the heart to protest, even though it smells worse back here—like old vomit and rotting food and piss. He presses his face to Ford’s hair and breathes in the smell of salt and paper and chemical preservatives, instead.</p><p>“It’s okay, buddy, we’re safe, we’re okay,” he repeats, petting Ford’s hair. “Nobody’s gonna hurt us. Nobody even wants to hurt us, I promise. You wanna go back to the hotel? We can hide out there ‘till tomorrow.”</p><p>Ford doesn’t respond in any particularly meaningful way. He just clings to Stan and shakes and shakes and <em> shakes.  </em></p><p>“Ford—hey, Stanford, I need you to look at me.” Stan pries Ford off—he refuses to let Ford cling, this time, although his brother’s panicked cries as he’s pushed away break his damn heart. “It’s okay! <em> Stanford, </em> it’s okay, but you need to <em> breathe. </em>Look, with me, okay?”</p><p>Stan takes Ford’s hand, pressing it to his chest and taking a deep breath. Ford’s fingers curl over his heart, and he gasps in one shuddery breath and then another. </p><p>“Good. Good, Ford, really good. Keep doing that.”</p><p>As soon as Ford’s breathing starts to even out, Stan gathers him up again. For several long minutes, he simply holds his brother, running one hand through his hair and letting him remember how to breathe. He thinks, briefly, that they’re going to be okay. Ford will collect himself enough to follow Stan back to the hotel, and by the time morning comes, everything will be back to normal. Things are going to be just fine.</p><p>Then someone staggers into the alley, groaning. </p><p>Ford goes deathly still in his arms.</p><p><em> Ah, </em> Stan has time to think, <em> shit. </em></p><p>Then Ford jerks away from Stan and places himself directly in front of the stranger, a growl bubbling from his throat and his teeth flashing in the yellow streetlights. The stranger blinks at him in abject confusion, an amber beer bottle swinging loosely from their fingers. </p><p>“Uh…?” they start to say, and Ford snaps his teeth with a vicious <em> crack </em>of sound. </p><p>“Don’t move,” Stan says immediately, stretching a hand towards the stranger. They stare at him, eyes round, before looking nervously back at Ford. “Sorry. Just don’t move. He’s, uh, seriously not doing great right now.”</p><p>“No shit, man,” the stranger agrees, holding their hands up in surrender. “I’ll just go.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”</p><p>For a second, it seems like that’s the end. The stranger’s going to step back, leave them alone, and let Ford relax. Only when the stranger <em> tries </em> to step back, their inebriation throws them off balance. They stumble to the side, bashing their shoulder against the wall and hissing out a curse. Their beer bottle drops from their fingers and shatters against the ground in a spray of glass and sour alcohol. </p><p>Ford lunges. </p><p>Stan lunges at the exact same time, slamming his brother into the wall. He wraps his arms tightly around Ford’s, trying to lessen the impact some, while Ford snarls and thrashes and does his damndest to get away. (But not once, <em> not once, </em> does he lash out at Stan.) “No! Ford, no, <em> stop.”  </em></p><p>Stan hears the stranger’s footsteps thud against the pavement as they retreat, and he exhales in relief. He knows, logically, that his brother can be aggressive—but god<em> damn, </em> seeing it in action is a completely different thing. Ford can be defensive (or overprotective, as the case may be) around Stan, but he’s never actively threatened him, and he’s <em> certainly </em>never tried to attack him. Now Ford hisses in frustration, digging his chin into Stan’s shoulder and pushing against his chest. </p><p>“Just a minute,” Stan mutters, keeping a firm hold. He doesn’t want Ford running after that stranger if he can help it—and if Ford <em> does </em>decide to give chase, well, the stranger at least deserves a head start before being hunted down by an intergalactic criminal with a quantum destabilizer. “Just a minute, Six, give it a minute and hush. Calm down.”</p><p>Ford growls again, grinding his teeth and digging his fingers into Stan’s shoulders. His chest heaves, and Stan can feel him shaking, again. Damn it. They need to get to the hotel, and soon. He threads his fingers through Ford’s hair, rubbing small circles across his scalp to try and settle him. He doesn’t dare try to go <em> anywhere </em>before Ford’s calmed down.</p><p>“Come on, work with me,” he murmurs, swaying on his feet in an attempt to relax his brother with the gentle rocking motion—<em> like the ship, </em>he thinks wistfully. He can’t wait to be back out on the water, where things make sense and taking care of his brother is—well, if not easy, then at least predictable. “Shut up and settle down. It was just some stranger, not somebody out to kill us. We’re safe.”</p><p>He repeats it like a mantra, every time: <em> we’re safe, we’re okay, no one wants to hurt us. </em></p><p>Sometimes Ford even believes him. This, unfortunately, is not one of those times. He calms down enough to stop growling and baring his teeth at the shadows, but he keeps his shoulders hunched the whole way back to the hotel, jumping every time a car passes or someone gets too close to them. Stan keeps himself very pointedly between Ford and everyone else, one hand firmly on his brother’s back to steer him forward. </p><p>As soon as they’re in the hotel room, Ford slams the door shut and locks it. He circles the whole room several times times, fingers twitching anxiously at his sides, and as soon as he’s deemed it safe he crawls underneath one of the beds. Stan flops down on the other bed, groaning and scrubbing his face with his hands. What a day, what a day. He gives Ford a few minutes to himself while he showers and cleans his dentures and changes into his sleeping clothes. After that, he kneels next to the bed and peeks underneath it.</p><p>“Comfortable under there?” he asks. Ford glares mutinously at him. “C’mon, you can’t stay here all night. You need to get cleaned up. We have, like, an actual bathtub here, and you stink, so go use it.”</p><p>Ford huffs and turns his back on Stan. This isn’t particularly unusual. What <em> is </em> unusual is the way he favors his right hand while he does it, holding it cautiously to his chest. What <em> is </em> unusual is the gleam of wet, dark blood between his fingers. What <em> is </em>unusual is the pained hitch of breath Stan hears when Ford’s palm touches the carpet.</p><p>“Ford,” he says, his voice suddenly sharp. “Stanford, look at me.”</p><p>Ford looks cautiously at him, eyebrows furrowed.</p><p>“Are you hurt?”</p><p>Ford looks away again.</p><p>“Shit! Damn it, Ford, how bad is it?” Stan scrambles to the other side of the bed so he can look at Ford’s hand. It’s coated in blood, and his fingers tremble. He bares his teeth when Stan reaches for it, and Stan snatches his hand back. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Why the <em> hell—?” </em></p><p>He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath. That’s a conversation for another time, when Ford’s thinking clearly and not cowering against the carpet with a gaping wound. Stan’s seriously gonna rip him a new one, though. They’ve talked about this! They’ve talked about keeping secrets, even when—<em> especially </em>when—one of them is hurt!</p><p>“We’re talking later,” he warns Ford. Ford wrinkles his nose in response. “Now I need you to come here so I can see what you’ve done to yourself.”</p><p>Ford squirms in indecision. While he fights with himself, Stan goes to get a bowl of warm water, a washcloth, and their first aid kit. He kneels a few feet away from the bed, patting the ground in front of him expectantly. After one last second of hesitation, Ford pulls himself out from under the bed and sits in front of Stan, hugging his knees to his chest.</p><p>“Alright,” Stan murmurs. Here comes the fun part. He holds his hand out, although he doesn’t truly expect it to be that easy. “Let me see your hand.”</p><p>Ford tucks his hands beneath his jacket.</p><p>“I’m not gonna hurt you. I want to help. You and I both know we need to clean the wound before it gets infected. Who knows what kind of bacteria were hangin’ around in that godforsaken alley, right?” Stan pushes his own hand forward a little more insistently, palm up. “C’mon, please? I don’t wanna fight you about it. <em> Please </em>don’t make me fight you, Six.”</p><p>When Ford still doesn’t move, Stan closes his eyes briefly. Then he reaches forward, touching Ford’s shoulder—Ford winces, but he doesn’t pull away, and he even lets Stan slide a hand down to his elbow and guide his hand away from his jacket. </p><p>“Good, good good good,” Stan mumbles, a constant litany of encouragement trying to convince Ford that he’s doing the right thing—trying, desperately, to keep him from pulling away and hiding again. “That’s it. I’m not here to hurt you. It’ll feel better once we’re done, promise.”</p><p>He examines Ford’s hand with trepidation. A cut runs along the side of his palm, short but deep, and still bleeding sluggishly. Stan has to wonder how he got it. Did he hurt himself on the boardwalk? In the alley? Did someone attack him? Stan’s stomach twists at the thought, and he has to shake his head to settle himself. Those are thoughts for later. Right now, he needs to focus on taking care of his brother.</p><p>“Hey, this doesn’t look so bad,” Stan says, clearing his throat and trying for jovial. “We’ll have you patched up in a jiffy. I’m gonna wipe all this blood off so I can see, okay?”</p><p>Carefully—as carefully as he’s ever done anything—Stan scrubs the dried blood from Ford’s fingers and palm. He works more slowly around the wound itself, dabbing up the wet blood at the edges and pausing to murmur encouragement each time Ford whines. His brother <em> hates </em>pain; he’s damn good at tolerating it (and at hiding it), but it always leaves him quiet and jumpy. </p><p>“Okay, okay, all done with that,” Stan says, once the blood has been cleared. He sets the washcloth aside, holding Ford’s hand in his own. “Let’s go to the bathroom so we can flush it out.”</p><p>It takes some coaxing, but Stan manages to get Ford to stand and follow him to the bathroom. He fills a cup with warm water and, holding Ford’s hand over the sink, gently sloshes it into the wound. Ford jumps, but he doesn’t try to jerk away. Instead, he presses his face to the back of Stan’s shoulder and breathes in short, choppy bursts. </p><p>“You’re doing good, you’re doing so good,” Stan says, drying Ford’s hand with a towel before grabbing the hydrogen peroxide from their first aid kit. He sets out a roll of bandages and tape, too; he’ll need to work quickly for this next step. He wraps his fingers around Ford’s wrist—around the thick, ropy scar tissue that encircles it—and guides his hand back over the sink. “Last part, okay? Then we’re done.”</p><p>Ford relaxes, however minutely, against him. Then Stan pours hydrogen peroxide into his wound, like a big traitorous traitor, and watches as it begins to froth viciously. Ford cries out and immediately tries to yank his injured hand away, his boots squeaking against the linoleum as he scrambles back. Stan doesn’t let him go. He keeps a tight grip on Ford’s wrist, ignoring his brother’s panicked whines (and the black, tarry guilt that sticks in his own lungs) while he binds the wound. As soon as the bandages are taped down, Stan releases him, and Ford bolts.</p><p>Stan stays in the bathroom for a moment, bracing his hands against the sink and taking several wobbly breaths and hating himself. Then he runs a hand through his hair and goes to face his brother. He can deal with his guilt later; right now, he’s got a job to do, and it’s infinitely more important than his moping. Ford’s squashed himself beneath the bed again, and when Stan peers under at him, he shies away. The fear is clear on his face, and he doesn’t respond when Stan tries to beckon him out again.</p><p>“Okay,” Stan says, swallowing thickly. “That’s okay. Maybe tomorrow, buddy.”</p><p>Instead of forcing his brother out of his hiding spot, Stan shoves pillows and blankets underneath the bed for him. He sets a glass of water down nearby, as well as a bag of jellybeans and a bottle of ibuprofen. It’s a sorry excuse for an apology, maybe, but it seems to be all Ford’s willing to allow at the moment. Stan’s not about to push him more than he already has today. Instead, he climbs into his own bed, pulls the blankets up, and stares into the darkness for a very long time.</p><p>“—ly? Stanley?”</p><p>The mattress shifts underneath him, and Stan snaps awake with a sharp breath. </p><p>“Sorry! Sorry, it’s okay, it’s just me.” Ford looks sheepishly at him, perched on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”</p><p>Stan mumbles something incoherent and rolls over. The numbers on the alarm clock glare back at him: 3:34 AM. Ford takes the sudden empty space at Stan’s back as an invitation and settles himself down there, curling up and pressing their spines together. </p><p>“I am sorry,” Ford repeats. “Not just for waking you, but for—well, for everything.”</p><p>“Ford, ‘s three in the morning.”</p><p>“Yes,” Ford agrees. He pauses. “Do you want me to be quiet?”</p><p>“You’re not gonna be able to sleep if you don’t say it now,” Stan mumbles, burying his face against a pillow. “Just don’t expect any mind-blowing advice.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t want advice. I just wanted to apologize. I must have given you quite a fright, disappearing like that. I just—I—well, there’s no excuse. I should have better self-control.”</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>“I ran into the man selling kabobs,” Ford explains, sounding far too coherent for someone awake at—and Stan repeats—<em> three in the goddamn morning. </em> “I knocked over a whole rack of the things. He had every right to be angry, but he shouted very unpleasantly, and there were so many people around and they were all so angry and so loud and I—I looked for you, I did, but I didn’t see you anywhere. You must have walked ahead.”</p><p>“Mm-hm, prolly.”</p><p>“I tried to find you.”</p><p>“I know. ‘s okay.”</p><p>“But I know you always come to find me when I hide, so when I couldn’t find<em> you, </em> I thought—well, if I just hide, then he’ll find me, like he always does.”</p><p>Stan’s throat tightens, suddenly, and he takes a deep breath.</p><p>“I tried to get away from all the people, but it was too crowded. The alley was the only empty place I could find. I stayed there.” Ford’s voice warms as he adds, “And you found me, just like I knew you would.”</p><p>“Ford—”</p><p>“Thank you, Stan. Thank you for always finding me. I don’t think I say that enough.”</p><p>Stan squeezes his eyes shut. </p><p>“Then that man showed up,” Ford continues, his tone souring. “He tried to hurt us.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Yes. He threw a beer bottle at us.”</p><p>“He <em> dropped </em>it. Nobody tried to hurt us.”</p><p>“Hmph,” Ford says, clearly unconvinced but equally unwilling to push the matter. “Well, either way, I suppose we’re both safe, and that’s what matters.”</p><p>“Your hand.”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“What happened to your hand?”</p><p>“Oh. I tripped and sliced it on something when I ran into the alley,” Ford says, stretching. His head bumps against Stan’s. “Just an accident. I’m sorry I gave you such trouble about cleaning it up.”</p><p>“I’m sorry I hurt you.”</p><p>“No, no, don’t be. It was necessary.”</p><p>“The way you looked at me—” Stan’s voice chokes, suddenly, and he snaps his mouth shut. The memory of the mistrust—the <em> fear— </em>in Ford’s eyes sits heavily with him. Ford is scared of lots of things, but not—not of Stan. He hasn’t been scared of Stan in a long time.</p><p>“Hey—hey, Stanley.” Ford rolls over, poking his back. “Stanley, look at me.”</p><p>Stan shakes his head. If he looks, Ford will see the sheen of tears in his eyes.</p><p>“Stanleeeey,” Ford says, jabbing him a little harder. When Stan still doesn’t respond, he sits up and leans over him. “Lee?”</p><p>“It’s nothing,” Stan says, clearing his throat and willing the tears away. “I’m just—I’m glad you’re feeling better.”</p><p>Ford tugs at the pillow covering his face, and Stan grumbles irritably at him. Ford growls back, a little pissy rumble of a thing that sounds so like <em> him </em>it almost makes Stan laugh. He refuses to give up, pulling insistently at the pillow until Stan finally releases it—only to yank the blankets up over his head instead. </p><p>“You’re acting like a child,” Ford huffs, and Stan hears the pillow hit the floor with a <em> whoomf! </em>Then Ford crowds up against him, wrapping his arms around Stan’s chest and squeezing tightly. He presses his forehead to the back of Stan’s shoulder, mumbling, “I’m not leaving, so you’d better just talk to me.”</p><p>“God, you’re stubborn.”</p><p>He feels Ford smile. “It runs in the family.”</p><p>“Just go back to sleep already.”</p><p>“Nope,” Ford says, popping the ‘p’ sound. “Not until my little brother tells me why he’s moping.”</p><p>“I’m not moping, and I’m not your <em> little brother, </em>either.”</p><p>“You so are.” Ford props his chin on Stan’s shoulder. “...this is all ‘cause I got hurt, huh?”</p><p>Stan doesn’t respond.</p><p>“Because you think <em> you </em>hurt me,” Ford muses aloud. “Because you think you scared me, and you think I’ll never trust you again. You think every time I look at you I’m just gonna see the guy who betrayed me when he worked so hard to get me to believe in him.”</p><p>“Would you <em> shut up?” </em></p><p>“Hit a nerve there, I see.” Ford pauses, rubbing his cheek against Stan’s shoulder like a damned cat. “It’s not true, you know.”</p><p>“Not true?” Stan spits, finally shoving the blankets away and rolling over so he can glare at his brother. “Of course it’s true! I <em> did </em> hurt you, and you <em> were </em> afraid of me. You wouldn’t even look at me, Ford! You wouldn’t even come out from under the bed. You watched me like I was gonna <em> attack </em>you every time I moved. Whatever trust I managed to get from you, it’s gone now.”</p><p>Ford scowls. “You’re not the one who gets to decide that.”</p><p>“So what? You’re gonna tell me you still trusted me last night? You were just hiding from me for <em> fun, </em>huh, was that it?”</p><p>“No. I wasn’t in my right mind last night and you know it.”</p><p>“I want you to trust me no matter <em> what </em>kind of mindset you’re in!”</p><p>“That’s not—that’s not that easy,” Ford says, guilt darkening his eyes as he looks away. “But it isn’t your fault, either. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Stanley, but I don’t trust many people. I’ve certainly never trusted <em> anyone </em>when I’m acting like—like I was last night. If I didn’t trust you to take care of me, I would never have let you anywhere near me.”</p><p>“I know you trusted me,” Stan says, his voice cracking. “I know you did. That’s what makes it <em> worse. </em>I might as well have stabbed you in the back.”</p><p>“It was necessary.”</p><p>“Well you didn’t know that last night!” Stan snaps. </p><p>“You scared me, alright, is that what you want to hear?” Ford demands, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at the far wall. “You scared me. I was scared. Of <em> course </em>I was—I’d just lost you, and then that man attacked us, and what you did to me hurt, and I didn’t understand why you were doing it.”</p><p>“Did it remind you of Bill?”</p><p>“What.” Ford’s voice falls flat, and shards of ice grip Stan’s chest. </p><p>“Did it remind you of Bill?” Stan demands. “When I held you and I hurt you? Because it reminded <em> me </em>of Bill. I don’t know what happened to you, Sixer, but I know who gave you those fucking scars, and I—”</p><p>“You are <em> not </em> Bill,” Ford hisses, gripping Stan’s shoulders hard enough to hurt. “You will never be him, do you understand me? What you did was <em> nothing </em>like what he did. He wanted to hurt me. You wanted to help me. There are worlds of difference between the two of you.”</p><p>Stan’s eyes sting, and he swipes furiously at them. “...you’re sure?”</p><p>“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.” Ford worms his way into Stan’s arms and tucks his head beneath Stan’s chin. “You’re not a monster. You didn’t want to hurt me. I know that. <em> I </em>trust you, even if sometimes I get scared and I don’t act like it. You did the best you could in a difficult situation.”</p><p>“What’s gonna happen the next time you slip, huh?” Stan asks, wrapping his arms tightly around his brother. “The next time you stop thinking straight? Are you even gonna want me around anymore?”</p><p>Ford hesitates, his fingers curling into Stan’s shirt. “I don’t know,” he admits softly. “But I <em> do </em>know that I love you, no matter what, and if anybody can convince me that it’s okay to trust again, it’s you. You’ve already done it so many times, Lee.”</p><p>“I wish I didn’t have to do it again. I wish things could be easy for you. I wish—I just wish—”</p><p>“I know,” Ford whispers. “I know, it’s okay, I know.”</p><p>Stan sniffs, wiping his eyes roughly again. Stupid, <em> stupid. </em>Ford’s the one who needs to be taken care of right now; Stan shouldn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. “You’re okay now, though, right? Your hand doesn’t hurt? You’re not still scared of me?”</p><p><em> “No, </em>I’m not scared of you, and my hand’s perfectly fine.”</p><p>“You should have told me you were hurt.”</p><p>“I’m sorry I didn’t, but—” Ford taps his temple. “I wasn’t thinking up here. I know we discussed it, and I’m sorry I couldn’t hold up my end of our agreement. I’d offer to do better next time, but I just don’t know that I’ll be able to, if I’m in that mindset.”</p><p>“That’s okay,” Stan says, mollified. It’s hard to stay mad when Ford apologizes so readily. “I guess I can’t expect you to do normal human stuff when you’re not thinking like a normal human.”</p><p>“I appreciate your lenience,” Ford says wryly. Then he yawns, rubbing his eyes. “You’re okay now? You don’t feel bad still?”</p><p>“I’m okay now.”</p><p>Ford squints suspiciously at him. “You’re sure?”</p><p>“Yes, I’m sure. What’s with the interrogation?”</p><p>“You were crying a few minutes ago.”</p><p>“I was not!”</p><p>“Were too,” Ford says, frowning. “You know it’s okay for you to feel sad sometimes, right? You don’t have to hide it. You don’t have to hide from me.”</p><p>...Stan wants to believe that. He really, really does.</p><p>“I know,” he says softly, smiling and knocking his temple against Ford’s. “Thanks, Sixer. Now c’mon, go back to bed.” </p><p>“Stanley…”</p><p>“I’m <em> okay, </em> really. I feel better now that we’ve talked. I’m just tired, that’s all, and <em> someone’s </em>keeping me awake.” Stan nudges Ford away, ushering him back to his own bed. Ford harrumphs and scoops his pillow up from the floor, tossing it back to him. “If you wake me up before seven tomorrow, I’m suing.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, very well,” Ford says, curling up in his bed and watching Stan through half-lidded eyes. The bandages around his hand, Stan notices vaguely, are already coming loose. He’ll have to bind them more tightly next time. He needs to do a better job when it comes to taking care of his brother. “You’d tell me? If you were sad?”</p><p>“Sure, you big worrywart,” Stan lies, burrowing further into his blankets. “Now stop thinking and go to sleep already.”</p><p>It’s easier to fall asleep, after that, and Ford—true to his word—doesn’t wake Stan until late in the morning. They’re quick to hop back onto the Stan o’ War and head out to sea, chasing down their adventures, and it’s months before Ford’s mindset slips again. When it does, Stan finds himself startled awake in the middle of the night because <em> someone </em>is cramming himself underneath Stan’s bed. This is not as unusual as, perhaps, it should be.</p><p>“Ford?” he slurs, yawning widely. “Come up here, bud.”</p><p>He doesn’t even think about it. Neither does Ford, evidently, because seconds later he’s worming his way into Stan’s bed and curling up between him and the wall. Stan rolls over to give him more room, and he’s just about to drift back to sleep when he realizes exactly what’s happened. His heart warms through, and he cups a hand over his mouth as he grins. Ford isn’t hiding from him. Ford trusts him. Ford <em> still trusts him. </em></p><p>“Heh. Thanks, Ford,” he whispers.</p><p>A soft, rumbling purr begins behind him. It’s all the answer Stan needs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. hide, and hide well</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <b>warnings: explicit flashback, blood, minor injury, memory issues, self-loathing, mentions of violence + murder + illegal drugs (the use and dealing of)</b>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Things are perfect in Gravity Falls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soos and Melody cleaned up the spare room in the Mystery Shack—Ford’s old bedroom, as it just so happens to be—in preparation for Stan and Ford’s visit. They arrive a week before Dipper and Mabel do, and Ford immediately develops a goddamn soulbond with Melody’s cat. The two of them are always in the same room, basking in sunlight and attention. Stan teases his brother about it more than once, but there’s no bite behind the words. It’s nice, seeing Ford so content. It’s really nice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cat’s not so bad, either. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a Thursday when everything goes wrong. Stan sits on the bench outside, his legs stretched out in front of him and a small, purring tabby in his lap. He rubs its ears between his fingers, and it pushes its face up into his palm. Melody sits next to him, showing him photos of her newest DIY project (a bookshelf for Soos’ comics, she says, and Stan thinks maybe Soos really </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>found the one). The kids are shouting from inside the house—they’re playing hide and seek with Ford. Stan doesn’t even need to look to know who’s winning </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>game.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...said he wouldn’t use the invisibility cloak,” Dipper grumbles, stomping outside with Mabel on his heels. “He’s gotta be around here </span>
  <em>
    <span>somewhere.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe he’s on the roof!” Mabel shades her eyes with her hand, squinting up at the roof of the Shack. “Aw, no, but Gompers is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Again!” Melody exclaims, her eyes widening. She gets up—presumably to go shoo Gompers off of the roof before he eats the signage—and leaves Stan with his niblings.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So? What’s the score?” Stan asks, arching an eyebrow at the two of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>no score,” Dipper says, flinging his hands into the air. “We’re still on round one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan grins, and he would swear the cat </span>
  <em>
    <span>mrrows </span>
  </em>
  <span>its amusement along with him. “Yeah, well, you’re playin’ with the master. Did you tell him to stay on the property?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...crap.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe he’s at the bunker,” Mabel says, her eyes shining. “Let’s go check it out. I’ll grab my grappling hook!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, I’m sure he didn’t go that far,” Stan says, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t really wanna leave you kids behind. He’s prolly in the Shack somewhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper groans. “But we’ve looked all </span>
  <em>
    <span>over. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I mean, except the lab, but—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you kids don’t go down there.” Stan scratches beneath the cat’s chin, and its purr intensifies. “Think small, dark, and quiet. That’s where you’ll find him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like Sweatertown.” Mabel’s tongue pokes out in concentration, and she taps her foot rapidly against the porch. “Well, we checked beneath the beds, and in the closets, and under the tables, and—oh, wait! I know where he is!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She races back inside, and Dipper takes off after her, shouting. Stan chuckles and swirls his glass of Pitt Cola, listening to the clink of ice. The cat stands and stretches leisurely, its pinprick claws catching in his trousers. He scoops it up and tosses it (gently!) back into the Shack, shutting the door behind it before it can get any ideas about runnin’ off. There are too many things in those creepy old woods that would love to make a meal of it, and Ford would be devastated if it, uh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>disappeared. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once he’s up, Stan stretches, groaning as his back clicks. Inside the Shack, he hears Mabel’s shriek of joy—followed closely by Ford’s booming laugh. A smile stretches across his face, and he doesn’t bother hiding it. Seconds later, Ford bursts out of the Shack and onto the porch, leaving muddy bootprints all over the place as he bolts for the yard with Dipper and Mabel right behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Ford,” Stan says, stepping to the side and narrowly avoiding the stampede.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, Stanley!” Ford calls joyfully as he sprints past.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The three of them pelt across the yard, and Ford turns on a damn dime, his boots catching and tearing up clots of grass as he dodges their niblings’ grasping hands. But Mabel’s not one to be trifled with—as he doubles back, she launches herself fearlessly into his legs, and the two of them go tumbling. For a second, Stan worries; Mabel’s an awfully squishable size compared to Ford. His worries dissolve, however, when he hears them both begin to giggle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ha! We win, Great Uncle Ford!” Dipper shouts victoriously, springing at Ford and Mabel. He collides with Ford’s stomach, and Stan tosses his head back and laughs when he hears his brother’s wheeze of defeat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We got you, we got you!” Mabel squeals, and Ford hooks his hands beneath her arms and pushes her up. She braces her feet on his chest, leaning down to squish his face as he catches his breath. “We goooot you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “That you did, my dear children,” Ford says, his voice breathless but warm. “That you certainly did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Up top, Dip-Dop!” Mabel holds her hand up, and Dipper high-fives her enthusiastically. “That’s what I call teamwork.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You just can’t beat the Mystery Twins,” Dipper says, sliding off of Ford’s stomach to sit next to him, instead. He leans back against Ford’s side, grinning like the little imp he is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that so?” Ford arches an eyebrow, releasing Mabel. She steps off of his chest and tugs the sleeve of his sweater, bouncing on her toes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get up, get up, let’s play again,” she insists. “It’s our turn to hide.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>Ford sits up, then rolls onto the balls of his feet and grins. It’s a shark’s grin, that. He cracks his knuckles, and Dipper gulps. “Yes,” he says, in the theatrical voice he usually uses for Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons—or complaining whenever Stan does something he doesn’t like. Drama queen. “You’d better</span> <span>hide, and hide well, because if you don’t, do you know what’s going to happen?”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper side-eyes him, already inching away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re gonna get to beat you up again, old man, that’s what!” Mabel declares, pointing fiercely at him, and oh, jeez, Stan’s so proud of her. That’s his girl. “So you’d better hope you don’t find us, or—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford pounces at Dipper, who shrieks and bolts. Mabel runs after her brother, laughing manically and flapping her sweater sleeves like bedazzled wings. Stan knows Ford could outrun those stumpy kid legs any day, but he also knows his brother’s as much of a sucker as he is—he’ll let the kids have their fun as long as they want. The three of them disappear behind the Shack, and Stan is left alone on the porch again. He sighs in contentment, knocking back the last of his cola. Man, this is the life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, in the Shack’s parking lot, a truck backfires and everything goes to shit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s better about his flashbacks, now. They don’t come quite as fast or quite as often, and he’s well-versed in how the hell to get through them. He’s grown used to pops and cracks and fireworks and hell, even gunfire itself. That alone wouldn’t normally be enough to get his hackles up, but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>enough to make him jump, and when he does, his left foot slides off of the porch. He yelps and trips, crashing to the ground like the old klutz he is, and the sudden lash of pain that goes up his leg is enough to stun him—but it’s the sound of glass splintering that really does him in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of a sudden, he’s not livin’ in his little slice of paradise anymore. All of a sudden, he’s nineteen and backed into a brick wall and somebody’s comin’ at him with a shattered beer bottle and a nasty look in their eye. There’s nowhere to go, he realizes with a sickening jolt. He’s trapped, here, and this man’s gonna kill him—or worse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit. Shit shit shit shit.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Is this how he goes? Some worthless vagabond murdered on the streets? Who’s gonna identify the body? How long will it take his family learn that he died—and will they even care? God, he’s just provin’ Pa right. He really was good for nothin’, in the end. His eyes feel hot with tears, but crying’s never solved a damn thing, so he blinks them away. He can’t let it end like this—he just </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If there’s one thing he knows for sure, it’s that Stanley Pines doesn’t go down without a fight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Stan bites down on his fear and lunges forward. He plows his way through his attacker, narrowly avoiding the jagged edge of the beer bottle and hoping, desperately, the guy doesn’t have any back-up nearby. Remarkably, he makes it away unharmed—but the man’s shouting, now, and Stan’s not about to push his luck. He bolts, heading down the street before plunging into a thicket of trees. They’re odd, those trees. He doesn’t remember Las Cruces having quite so many (and he certainly doesn’t remember the trees having eyes).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan fights his way through the brush until the man’s shouting fades, and then—only then—does he allow himself to slow. He pants for breath, raking his eyes across his surroundings. The trees arch over him, their leaves filtering the sunlight and rustling faintly in the breeze. It smells like moss and dirt and old, growing things. He doesn’t remember Las Cruces smelling like that, either, and something about the fact deeply disturbs him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Swallowing hard, Stan takes another step forward, and his left leg nearly buckles beneath him. He hisses through his teeth, sitting down and grabbing for the epicenter of the pain: his damn ankle. Maybe he didn’t get out of that alley quite as unscathed as he thought. Musta sprained it when he was pushin’ past that guy, or runnin’ for the hills, or...or somethin’...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then he realizes that he’s bleeding all over the place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swears, turning his hands over until he finds the source of the blood. A long, narrow gash runs along the side of his wrist—guy got him with the beer bottle, yeah, he remembers that. (Except...except wasn’t that cut on his shoulder…?) Biting his lip, Stan tears off a scrap of his shirt and binds it tightly around his wrist. The cut’s not deep, so he shouldn’t be bleeding out anytime soon, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>damn </span>
  </em>
  <span>does it sting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still not the worst he’s had, though, so he prolly oughta quit his complainin’. Really, he just needs to settle down somewhere for a few hours—just until he gets his wits back and remembers where exactly he is, and where he’s going, and—and, um—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. It’ll all come back to him. He’s just too tired and stressed to think of it right now, that’s all. Did he take something? He tries to think back, but he can’t really remember. He knows he has meth on him, but that’s Rico’s stuff, and it’d be awful stupid to take any. Still, if there’s another thing he’s sure about, it’s that Stanley Pines is pretty much the biggest, stupidest asshole this side of the planet. Meth is definitely not out of the question. It usually doesn’t make him feel like </span>
  <em>
    <span>this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>though. This is...this is weird.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needs to find somewhere safe to hole up for the night, he decides. He’ll sleep whatever the hell </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is off, and he’ll be just fine come morning. Slowly, Stan pushes himself to his feet and limps further into the forest, watching the shadows around him nervously. He takes a few deep breaths before squinting up into the sunshine. It’s hot enough to be Las Cruces, that’s for sure, but it’s just so </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All around him he hears the chirp of birds, the soft clack of branches, the chattering of squirrels. What he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>hear is the soft rush of cars on the streets, or the constant background noise of people, or the angry honking when two taxis want the same place at the same time. He smells fresh air instead of dumpsters and cigars and unwashed bodies. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing feels right, and it’s starting to make his head ache.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Where is he? When is he? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who </span>
  </em>
  <span>is he?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tears prick his eyes, and he swipes angrily at them. Shit, since when was he such a pussy? He’s definitely gotta be doped up on something, and if ever remembers what the hell it is, he’s gonna make a point to never, ever go anywhere near it again, because this is such bullshit. He’s fine. He’s gonna be fine. His name is Stanley Pines, and he’s in Las Cruces, New Mexico. He has a job to do, and it doesn’t involve gettin’ himself stabbed to death, so he’d better stick to well-lit deals from now on. What kind of dumbass does a deal on the street, anyway? He’s better than that. He does his deals in—in, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Taco Bell. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Man, he could really go for a quesadilla right about now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s stomach rumbles, and he folds his arms tightly across it. Huh. Did he get fatter, recently? He’s still squinting down at himself when he hears a branch snap in the distance, and his head jerks up. He holds his breath and strains to listen, but he doesn’t hear anything else. Probably just some woodland creature frolicking around, or whatever the hell it is that woodland creatures do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then a shadow catches his eye, and okay, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>that’s not a woodland creature. It’s human-shaped, for one thing, tall and broad-shouldered and with a bright purple sweater on. Guy’s not trying to hide, that’s for sure. You could see him for miles around in that color. Stan glances down at himself, and he’s grateful to see that he’s dressed more sensibly in blacks and browns. After all, he needs to hide; who knows what this guy’s deal is? Besides, there’s—there’s something odd about the way the man moves, his footsteps neat and precise, his eyes scanning the forest around him with feverish intensity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s forgotten a lot of things, maybe, but he hasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>forgotten the way a predator moves. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter is a little shorter and angstier than the others bc !!! the next chapter !! will be a special edition :3 (mostly bc we're finally switching povs for a little while!! and o h b o y is it fun to write from ford's perspective). but fear not !! the upcoming chapter is mostly already written (just needs a lil editing), so you'll have the comfort part of your hurt/comfort soon, ideally the beginning of next week!!</p>
<p>also thaNK U ALL AGAIN for your comments and kudos and support !!! they,,nourish me,,</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. his brother's trail</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <b>warnings: blood, minor injury, explicit flashback, self-loathing, brief reference to drugs</b>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ford hears a loud <em> pop! </em>followed shortly by a crash from the porch, and he digs his heels in and skids to a sudden stop. “Dipper,” he says sharply. “Mabel.”</p><p>His niblings run back to him, bunching around his legs. Mabel reaches up to grab hold of his sweater while Dipper’s eyes focus on the Shack. Ford is grateful for their immediate acquiescence, although there’s a part of him that loathes it, too—that loathes the fact they’ve had to learn the world is a dangerous, unpredictable place and it’s in their best interest to come running when he calls since he may very well be the only thing standing between them and certain death. What a hideous thing for a child to learn.</p><p>Ford scans the area around them, first, but the Shack’s yard is empty of any threats (save for Gompers and his sour attitude, but that’s a threat Ford has long since learned to deal with). The sky, too, is clear and cloudless and blue. No smoke, no fire, no anomalous rips in space-time or massive beasts bearing down on them. He doesn't smell blood, or fire, or rot. No screams or shouts or roars reach his ears. Things seem...safe.</p><p>For a moment, he almost dares to believe that’s true.</p><p>“Grunkle Ford?” Mabel asks, tugging his sleeve. “What was that?”</p><p>“We should go check it out,” Dipper says, taking a step forward. Ford grabs the collar of his shirt and hauls him back, doing his best to ignore the scowl he gets in return. “Come on—Grunkle Stan’s over there!”</p><p>“I know.” That makes the situation infinitely worse. If it weren’t for the children, Ford would already be there, teeth bared and fists up. As it is, he needs to make sure Dipper and Mabel are kept safe while they go to check on everyone else. <em> Everything is fine, </em> he tells himself sternly. That inner voice sounds unfortunately like Stanley’s. <em> No one wants to hurt you here. </em>“Come on. Stay near me, the both of you.”</p><p>Ford leads the way back to the front of the Shack. His hand instinctively falls to his hip, but he’s unarmed—stars, of <em> course </em> he is. Why would he need a gun to play hide and seek with children? So he curls his hands into fists, instead, peeking around the edge of the Shack. Dipper and Mabel lean against his legs, straining to see around him and jostling for the best spot. One of them elbows his knee, and he growls softly at them so they settle down. Their noises could attract attention, could attract <em> predators, </em>and the last thing Ford wants is—</p><p><em> No, </em> the inner-voice-that-sounds-too-much-like-Stanley reminds him. <em> There are no monsters here—none that are targeting you specifically, anyway. This place is safe. </em></p><p>A quick glance around confirms it. The front yard is empty, as is the porch. The parking lot has several cars in it, and tourists mill near the Mystery Shack’s entrance. None of them <em> look </em> particularly dangerous, but one can never be too cautious. Ford side-eyes them a moment before deeming whatever risk they pose to be minor, at best. </p><p>“Where’s Stan?” Dipper whispers. </p><p>“Maybe he went back inside,” Mabel suggests. “We should go see.”</p><p>A split second later, the Shack’s door swings open and Melody steps out. She sets her hands on her hips, scanning the yard. When she spots them, her face brightens, and she waves them over. Dipper and Mabel run to her, and Ford steps aside to let them. He may not have known her long, or known her well, but Soos trusts her, and Soos is—</p><p>Well, Soos is just about the most harmless person (gopher? still not entirely convinced he’s not a gopher) Ford’s ever met. Besides, he took care of Stan when Ford couldn’t. His opinion counts for quite a bit.</p><p>“Hey, you two,” Melody says, patting the children’s heads. “What’s all the noise about?”</p><p>“We were hoping you could tell us that,” Mabel says, looking hopefully at Melody.</p><p>“Yeah. We were in the backyard. We thought maybe you guys were up to something.”</p><p>Melody lifts her screwdriver and taps it against her chin, squinting as she thinks. “Well, I’ve been working on that bookshelf, but it shouldn’t have been loud enough to spook you all. It definitely wasn’t what <em> I </em>heard. Maybe Mr. Pines got into something?”</p><p>“Hmm—it’s a mystery. A mystery for the Mystery Twins!” Mabel declares, spinning on her heel and beginning to pace across the porch. She brings her hand up, stroking her chin and humming thoughtfully. Then her eyes catch on something and widen, and the sudden gravity on her face brings Ford running.</p><p>“What?” he demands. “What is it?”</p><p>“Is that, um—is that Grunkle Stan’s glass?” Mabel points. The sunlight glints off of something in the grass, and when Ford approaches, he sees that she’s right. Shards of glass glitter back at him, but that isn’t what makes him panic.</p><p>What makes him panic is the <em> blood.  </em></p><p>There isn’t much of it, but suddenly it’s all Ford can see—bright, garish slashes of red across translucent glass. His heart clenches painfully in his chest, and his thoughts blur. He fights the feeling as best he can, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He doesn’t have time for panic, not here, not now. He needs to think clearly and rationally. He needs to <em> find Stanley. </em></p><p>“Stay here, you two,” Ford orders, looking sternly at Dipper and Mabel.</p><p>“But Grunkle Ford—!” they both protest.</p><p><em> “Stay here,” </em>he growls, pushing them towards Melody. “Stay with Melody until I come and get you. I’m going to find your uncle.”</p><p>“But we want to help!” Mabel says, grabbing his hand. “Grunkle Ford, please. We can help.”</p><p>Dipper nods adamantly. “Yeah. Come on, it’s not like we’re kids anymore.”</p><p>...and isn’t that the worst goddamn part? They should still be kids. They should still be <em> innocent. </em> If he hadn’t dragged them along with him last year, maybe they still would be. Ford yanks his hand away from Mabel, backing off of the porch and shaking his head. “I said <em> stay,” </em> he repeats, “and I meant <em> stay. </em>Melody, would you…?”</p><p>“I’ll keep an eye on them, Dr. Pines, don’t worry,” she assures him. “Be safe.”</p><p>Ignoring the twins’ shouts of protest, Ford bolts into the forest. It isn’t hard to follow Stanley’s trail—he must have blundered like a damn bear, crushing foliage everywhere he stepped, and every few feet there’s a spatter of blood on a leaf or a tree trunk or a creeping bramble. Ford’s stomach turns at the sight. How badly hurt is his brother—and <em> who hurt him? </em>Is the threat still out here, in the forest?</p><p>...is it back at the Shack?</p><p>A bolt of terror lances through Ford’s chest at the thought—the twins! Soos and Melody! Mr. Whiskers! What if someone hurts them while Ford is gone? Oh, he has to find Stanley quickly. The sooner he can get everyone together (the sooner he can gather them all under his watchful eye), the better. He can’t lose any of them. He just <em> can’t.  </em></p><p>Despite his desperation, he doesn’t dare call out for Stanley lest an attacker is nearby. Instead, he keeps his steps quiet and careful. Stan’s trail grows less obvious as he heads further into the forest, and the blood vanishes entirely—a small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. Even so, Ford never loses track of him. He’s hunted far stealthier things than his brother. When the trail stops near a burbling stream, Ford pauses to scan the underbrush. </p><p>The thing is, Stanley’s not good at hiding. He has never has been. He’s too loud for it—too loud and too colorful and too emotional. He doesn’t like <em> smalldarkquiet. </em>In fact, Ford’s pretty sure he hates it. He actively avoids closing himself into windowless rooms for any extended period of time. He gets twitchy if he’s in a crowd for too long, his eyes always seeking the nearest escape route. Sometimes he wakes from nightmares in a cold sweat, and he’ll stand on deck for hours afterwards just trying to breathe. </p><p>Ford stands with him, but he’s always careful not to stand too close.</p><p>So it makes sense, Ford supposes, that Stanley isn’t hiding now. Instead, Stanley stands near the edge of the stream, watching Ford warily, and Ford’s breath shudders with relief. His brother’s here, his brother’s alive, his brother’s <em> okay. </em>He stumbles a step forward, his words sticking in his throat. For once, he can’t bring himself to mind. Stanley will understand what his pathetic whining means. Only—</p><p>Only as soon as Ford steps forward, Stanley bolts. </p><p>His first instinct is to pounce and pin, because he can’t lose Stanley, not here, not now, not when he’s already hurt and there could be <em> monsters </em> in this forest—but Ford digs his boots in, fighting the urge. He has to <em> think. </em>Why the would Stanley be running from him? It doesn’t make any sense, unless—</p><p>Oh. The world clicks back into place. </p><p>Stanley must have fallen off the porch <em> (or been pushed, </em> the hateful, suspicious part of his mind hisses; he tries his best to dismiss it) and dropped his glass. He could have cut himself on the shards. Maybe something about the noise or the injury itself was enough to trigger a flashback, and if <em> that’s </em>the case, Ford’s got his work cut out for him. Stanley can be notoriously defensive during a flashback—especially if his memories get jumbled.</p><p> So, Ford thinks, tackling Stanley is probably not the best way to go about this situation.</p><p>Instead, he follows Stanley as quietly as he can—it isn’t hard, not with all the noise Stanley is making—and keeps his distance when Stanley eventually stops, backed against the wall of ravine. Stanley’s eyes dart across the forest, and they narrow sharply when they land on Ford again. Ford winces and rubs his arm, hunching his shoulders in a futile attempt to make himself look smaller. Really, though, if Mabel’s hand-knit bright purple ACCORDING TO SCIENCE, YOU MATTER turtleneck isn’t enough to make him unintimidating, he doesn't know what will. A sweater vest, perhaps? The pajamas Fiddleford bought him (the ones lovingly embroidered with the words <em> Dr. Sleepy, PhZZZ)? </em> He’ll have to keep that in mind for the next time he has to convince his brother he’s not about to murder him.</p><p>“Who are you?” Stanley demands. “Why are you following me?”</p><p>Right! Right, Ford has to actually communicate, because that is a thing people do. He clears his throat. “Stanley, I—”</p><p>Stanley flinches like Ford’s hit him, and Ford feels irrationally guilty about it. “How do you know my name?”</p><p>“Please, let me explain. I know you must be very confused and frightened, but you’re safe here, and I don’t want to hurt you. No one does.”</p><p>It’s the same thing Stanley tells him so very often, when the world grows teeth and claws and <em> eyes </em> and Ford can’t possibly hide well enough to avoid them all. Despite that, Stanley seems—well, incredibly unconvinced. A muscle in his jaw tightens, and his hands curl into fists. “Yeah,” he spits, “sure, pal.”</p><p>“I’m serious,” Ford insists. Something aches, soft and sore, in the pit of his chest. He knows Stanley has trouble believing in safety and love and trust when he’s like this—the same way Ford does when he’s in the throes of a flashback—but that doesn’t make it any easier to witness. “You’re having a flashback. You’re in Gravity Falls, Oregon. You—”</p><p>Stanley shakes his head. “Nope! No, no, no, that’s not possible.”</p><p>“Yes, it is. It’s 2013, Stanley. We’re home, with Dipper and Mabel and Soos and Melody—and Waddles and Mr. Whiskers! You remember them, don’t you?”</p><p>“I—” Stanley hesitates, bringing his hands up and pressing them to the sides of his head. His wrist, Ford notices with a prickle of alarm, is bound in bloody cloth. “I don’t.”</p><p>Ford swallows hard. “That’s okay. You have trouble remembering, sometimes, and that’s okay. It’ll come back to you. You—”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s a likely story,” Stanley scoffs, dropping his hands. One of them brushes behind his back, like it’s looking for a gun that Ford hopes desperately isn’t there. “How about you tell me what you really want?”</p><p>“I want to get you somewhere safe,” Ford says, taking a step forward—but not too much, not too close, lest he spook his brother again. “I know maybe it’s hard for you to believe right now, but I love you, and I want to look after you.”</p><p>That, more than anything else, seems to jar Stanley. Horror flashes across his face first, followed closely by pain, confusion, and disbelief. “Man,” he says, after a second, “what the hell are you <em> on?” </em></p><p>Ford bristles at the insinuation he would need to be <em> on </em> a drug of any kind to love his own damn brother. (It hurts, that Stanley thinks that—that he thinks it so <em> impossible </em>for someone to love him.) “I’m not on anything! I’m your brother.” Ford holds his hand up, splaying his fingers. “It’s me, Stanley. It’s Stanford.”</p><p>Stanley stumbles back—or tries to, anyway, but his heel catches on a stone and he trips and crashes to the ground. Ford fights the urge to run to his side and settles for pacing anxiously a few feet away instead, gritting his teeth. He has to wait until Stanley’s ready. He has to wait until Stanley wants him near or he’ll just make everything worse. </p><p>“I—you—Ford?” Stanley sputters, his eyes wide. “What are you—how are you—?”</p><p>“I can explain, but—Stanley, please let me help you,” Ford says, and he <em> hates </em>how small and plaintive his own voice sounds. “You’re hurt.”</p><p>Stanley stares at him, clearly overwhelmed. “You—no,” he says, and Ford’s heart sinks. “No, you’re not him, you can’t be.”</p><p>“I’m just some other guy with six fingers, then?” Ford counters, miffed. “Just some other guy who happens to look just like our father? Just like <em> you?” </em></p><p>“If you were him you wouldn’t care!” Stanley snaps, suddenly, and Ford feels cold all over. “Ford doesn’t care about <em> me, </em> he doesn’t give a goddamn <em> shit </em>if I’m hurt or lost or—or—”</p><p>“How can you say that?” Ford cries, aghast. He can’t stop himself from moving forward, this time. He drops to his knees in front of Stanley, digging his fingers into the soil to keep from grabbing him. “Don’t say that!”</p><p>“It’s true. If you were really him you’d know it’s true. I ruined his dreams and he ruined my <em> life— </em> fair fucking trade, huh? Not that I can blame him. Of course he’s better off without me. I was always holding him back, always dragging him down, always <em> smothering </em> him. I ruined everything. Why would he <em> ever </em> care about somebody like <em> me? </em>I’m just the bad twin. I’m just his stupid, worthless brot—”</p><p>“Shut up!” Ford snarls, baring his teeth. Lo and behold, Stan actually shuts up. “Don’t you—don’t you <em> dare </em>say those things about him. I—I’ll—”</p><p>Ford rocks back on his heels, wrapping his arms around himself and gulping in a breath. His thoughts crash tumultuously into each other, seething and red. Nobody gets to talk about Stanley that way. <em> Nobody. </em>He should be tearing someone apart for the transgression, but—</p><p>But there’s no one here to tear apart. There’s just Stanley, who’s looking at him with a sudden spark of recognition. Ford hates that. He <em> hates it. </em> Why is it his anger that makes Stanley remember him? Why, more than any other emotion, more than love or hope or trust, does Stanley have to associate him with <em> anger? </em></p><p>(Ford knows why. That doesn’t make it any easier to bear.)</p><p>“Sixer…?”</p><p>Ford snarls again, dropping his head and digging his fingers into his hair. Is that what Stanley thinks of him? That he doesn’t care? That he doesn’t care because Stanley is worthless? He hopes—oh, he hopes!—that it’s only the flashback talking, but what if it’s not? What if Stanley still thinks those things about Ford? What if he still thinks those things about <em> himself?  </em></p><p>“Oh—oh, hey, hey, no, it’s okay.” Stanley’s voice is gentle, now, calm in the way it always is when Ford’s world starts to splinter apart. His hands touch Ford’s, gently guiding his fingers out of his hair and trapping them between his palms. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I forgot. I’m here now, I’m back, everything’s going to be—”</p><p>Ford tears his hands away, and then he lunges. He wraps himself around his little brother, hooking his chin over Stanley’s head and hugging him tightly. He grinds his teeth. His jaw aches with the weight of his fury. </p><p>“Oh, Six,” Stanley says, his voice hoarse. He reaches up, beginning to slowly pet Ford’s back, and Ford growls savagely at him. Stan stops immediately, moving his hand back. “Sixer…? What’s up?”</p><p>Ford’s <em> fucking angry </em> is what’s up. He’s angry at himself, for having ever made Stanley feel the way he does. He’s angry at Pa for kicking Stanley out and leaving him to fend for himself on the streets. He’s angry at all the teachers who ever made Stanley feel stupid. He’s angry at <em> Stanley </em> for ever, ever, <em> ever </em> saying things like that about himself—for <em> believing </em>things like that about himself and not coming to Ford for help! </p><p>“I’m fine now,” Stanley soothes, like it’s still <em> Ford </em> who needs to be taken care of it, like it’s still <em> Ford </em>who needs gentling. “We’re okay, we’re safe. It was just a flashback. I remember you. I love you.”</p><p><em> I love you too, </em> Ford wants to say. <em> I love you so much, you daft knucklehead, and I’m going to make sure you know it from now on. It won’t even be a question in your mind. </em></p><p>Only Ford’s brain is busy making emotions, not words, so he can only squeeze Stanley a little bit harder and hope the message is conveyed. Stanley wheezes, so that is probably not a good sign. He loosens his hold and rubs his jaw against Stanley’s hair, instead, trying to swallow his growls. It’s difficult. It’s so difficult to stop being angry once he’s started.</p><p>But.</p><p>But there are very important things to attend to that he must not be angry for. He forces himself to take a few deep, slow breaths before reaching for Stanley’s hand. Stanley offers it freely to him, and that—more than anything—begins to quell the rage sitting in his stomach. Ford unwinds the scrap of cloth around Stanley’s wrist, examining the wound underneath critically. It isn’t deep, and the bleeding seems to have stopped already. </p><p>“It’s okay,” Stanley insists. “It’s no big deal.”</p><p>Ford wants to <em> bite </em>him. He settles for cracking his head against Stanley’s, instead, and Stanley yelps and clutches his skull. Ford’s intracranial metal plate, as it turns out, makes for ideal headbutts.</p><p>“Ow! You jerk,” Stanely says, rubbing his head. “The hell was that for?”</p><p>Ford huffs, then presses his hand to Stanley’s chest. He can feel his brother’s heartbeat, quick and violent, and the way his ribs hitch with each rapid breath. He’s still scared. Of <em> course </em> he is—he just got done with a flashback, and now he has to deal with Ford’s bullshit. Guilt gnaws at the back of Ford’s throat; he’s angry, but that can wait. That <em> has </em>to wait. What matters right now is making sure Stanley feels physically and emotionally safe.</p><p>So, despite his urge to drag Stanley back to the Shack and hide them both away for the foreseeable future, Ford takes a minute. He huddles closer, nuzzling Stanley’s temple apologetically before hooking his chin over his head. Stanley hesitates for a moment, then leans against him, and Ford exhales in relief. </p><p><em> You’re safe, </em> Ford wants to say. <em> You’re safe here, with me, and I won’t let anything hurt you. There’s nothing to be afraid of right now. You can relax. Let me watch over us. </em></p><p>But the words are caught somewhere in the back of his head, and so he settles for gently running his fingers through Stanley’s hair, picking out leaves and twigs because his brother is an actual mess. It’s harder than it should be, reaching for a purr, but Ford manages it. It’s gravelly and rough, but it seems to do the trick: Stanley slumps a little more against him, breathing deeply. </p><p>Message received, Ford thinks.</p><p>Slowly, cautiously, Stanley loops an arm around Ford’s back and returns his hug. “Thanks, Ford,” he mumbles, and Ford bumps their heads together affectionately. </p><p>But they can’t stay here forever—Ford’s anxiety won’t let them. He has to get Stanley somewhere safe, he has to tend to his wounds, he has to make sure no one’s hurt the children back at the Shack. Hopefully, after that, Ford will have regained enough of his composure to speak—because he and Stanley are going to have a <em> very </em>long talk. </p><p>As soon as Stanley’s breathing has evened out, Ford gingerly pries himself out of his brother’s grip, stands, and offers him a hand up. Stanley takes his hand, hauling himself to his feet and then staggering. He holds his weight all wrong, Ford realizes. He whines anxiously, looking his brother over for any less obvious injuries. Has he broken something? Bruised something? Burned something? </p><p>“Just a sprained ankle,” Stanley assures him. “Somehow, I think I’ll live.”</p><p>Ford’s stomach twists. How does Stanley get into <em> this much trouble? </em>Ford looked away for ten minutes! Ten minutes, and now he’s had a flashback, sliced his wrist open, and sprained a ligament! Stanley, Ford is beginning to think, may very well have the worst luck in the whole world. He pulls Stanley’s arm over his shoulders, encouraging his brother to lean on him as they begin the slow trek home.</p><p>“Hey, Six?”</p><p>Ford glances over at him.</p><p>“I am sorry,” Stanley says, his voice quieter than it should be. “I know I stressed you out. I didn’t mean to worry you by runnin’ off. I wasn’t thinking straight. So I’m sor—”</p><p>“Stanley,” Ford manages to say, as eloquently as the reinvigorated angry shrieking in his head will allow, “please stop talking.”</p><p>Stanley stops talking, but there’s frustration etched all across his face, now. Good. Ford wants that frustration to come out—he wants Stanley to stop <em> hiding everything </em> all the time. He wants Stanley to stop being <em> sorry </em> for taking up space, <em> sorry </em> for bothering him, <em> sorry </em>for ever being an inconvenience. Stanley takes care of him constantly. Why won’t he let Ford return the favor without feeling like shit about it? It isn’t fair.</p><p>These are all things Ford wants to say, of course, but right now he is too busy trying not to growl like some stupid dog.</p><p>They make the rest of the walk home in silence. Ford supports as much of Stanley’s weight as his brother will allow, but it still wrenches his heart to see his brother limping. Each time his foot brushes the ground, a grimace flickers across his face. He tries to hide it, but that’s Ford’s face, too, and he knows what it looks like when it’s in pain. The fact that Stanley feels the need to hide his hurting makes Ford even angrier, and by the time they get to the Shack he is still not in a talking mood at all.</p><p>He is, however, in a <em> tend to his brother </em>mood, so he starts there.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>phew! the penultimate chapter completed!! there's just one more and i'm sO EXCITED FOR YOU GUYS TO SEE IT IT'S MY FAVORITE AAAAA</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. i found you again!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <b>warnings: minor injuries + medical procedures, self-loathing</b>
</p>
<p>haPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYBODY !!!! plz accept this chapter as my treat in lieu of candy, and have an awesome (and safe!) spooky night :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Ford is...not doing great. Stan knows it’s his fault (what was he thinking, leaving his brother behind? what was he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking, </span>
  </em>
  <span>shouting at him like that? fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck) </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the guilt curdles in his gut. Each worried look Ford tosses him as they make their way back to the Shack drives the guilt deeper, and Ford won’t even let him apologize properly. He’s pissed—and rightfully so, alright, Stan can admit that—but Stan is </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying </span>
  </em>
  <span>to make amends, here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe Ford will be more receptive to his apologies once he’s cooled down. He’s still hopped up on adrenaline, and he’s got that shifty look in his eyes that makes it clear he isn’t all </span>
  <em>
    <span>here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Stan wishes he’d calm down (he wishes he’d let </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan </span>
  </em>
  <span>calm him down), but any grounding touch Stan offers has been shrugged off—save for his arm over Ford’s shoulders, and Ford’s own arm looped around his back to guide him forward. Honestly, it’s only a sprained ankled! You’d think he’d broken something, the way Ford fusses.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soos is the first to greet them when they near the Shack. He bounds off of the porch with a cry of “Mr. Pineses!” and Ford bristles all over, a growl crackling in the back of his throat. He tries to worm his way out from underneath Stan’s arm, but Stan tightens his grip and holds him in place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quit that, Ford. C’mon. It’s only Soos.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Soos has the sense enough to skid to a stop before he slams into them. “Mr. Pineses!” he says again, panting. “Are you alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re fine, Soos,” Stan says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re—blood!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s only a little cut. C’mon, don’t make such a fuss,” Stan says, trying to keep his voice jovial. If </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>people start freaking out, it’s only gonna feed Ford’s fear, and that’s the last thing they need. The door to the Shack slams open again, and Ford jumps and glares—his gaze softens as soon as he sees who’s running towards them, though. When he moves forward, this time, Stan lets him go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Ford!” Mabel shouts. Ford crouches in front of them, opening his arms, and Mabel launches herself into them. Dipper follows shortly after. Ford gathers them both to him, nuzzling their hair and exhaling a sharp, relieved breath. “You were gone forever! We were worried something bad had happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, nothin’ bad,” Stan assures her. “Just some ugly memories, that’s all. We’re alright now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper tries to squirm out of Ford’s arms, but he seems to be having some trouble with it. Ford clutches both children protectively, grumbling when Dipper pushes at him, and Stan has to chuckle. Mabel manages to make a break for it while Ford is distracted with her brother, ducking underneath his arm and racing to Stan’s side. She slams into his legs, and he stumbles a step back and hisses at the sudden weight on his ankle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the span of a second, Ford whirls around, bares his teeth, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>snarls </span>
  </em>
  <span>at Mabel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey!” Stan steps in front of their niece, glaring at Ford. “That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Grunkle Ford…?” Mabel asks, her voice suddenly small and uncertain. Ford’s eyes meet hers—he looks as startled by himself as she does, and the sudden confusion in his gaze tells Stan all he needs to know. Whoever Ford thought he’d be snarling at, it wasn’t Mabel. If anything, Stan guesses his brother had been expecting Soos, which is—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, not really any better, but a little less alarming.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan sets a hand on Mabel’s head. “It’s okay, pumpkin. He’s just a little tense, that’s all. He didn’t know it was you—he didn’t mean it. Did you, Ford?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford shakes his head hard. He looks horrified at the thought, and Stan knows he’s going to have to deal with the backlash of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>later. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Mr. Pines?” Soos whispers, leaning towards Stan. “Is something wrong with Mr. Pines?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll be okay. He just needs a few minutes to calm down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper reaches up, taking Ford’s hand and setting his jaw in determination. (He looks like a little Ford, when he does that.) “Come on, then. Let’s all go inside so we can calm down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper leads the march back into the Shack, dragging Ford along behind him. Every few steps, Ford tosses an anxious look over his shoulder to make sure Stan’s coming along, and Stan’s not quite sure whether he should be amused or annoyed. He settles for a little of both. Mabel sticks to him like glue as he limps towards the Shack—he’s got her on one side and Soos on another, as well-defended as he’s ever been. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as they get inside, Stan flops into his armchair and groans. Ford makes his rounds, circling the rooms just to make sure nothing’s broken in to murder them in the half-hour they’ve been gone. Dipper and Mabel climb into Stan’s chair, and Soos speaks quietly to Melody for a moment. He gestures towards Ford more than once before she leads him out of the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Grunkle Stan?” Dipper asks softly, and Stan grunts in response. “What’s wrong with Great Uncle Ford?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing’s wrong with him, kid,” Stan says, tousling Dipper’s hair. “You know how he gets sometimes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is worse than that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan exhales softly. “...yeah, it is. But he’ll get it out of system, don’t worry. He’s just scared.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why? I thought you said nothing bad happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, we—had a not-so-great conversation,” Stan admits, grimacing. “It’s my fault. I got him worked up.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Again, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks bitterly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is he…?” Mabel asks, and then she sniffles. Stan looks down at her, horrified, but she swipes at her eyes before he can see her crying. “Is he mad at me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? No, no, sweetheart, absolutely not. I told you, he didn’t know it was you. He thought somebody was hurtin’ me, that’s all. He could never be mad at you. He loves you to death—the both of you.” He hugs her close, and she buries her face against his shoulder. “I don’t care how stressed he is, he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>hurt you. You gotta believe me on that one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford steps out of the kitchen, casting a wary glance over his shoulder before directing his attention to Stan. Stan glares at him, and then looks very pointedly at the kids. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford,” he says, in a tone that tolerates no argument. “Come over here. Tell Mabel you’re not mad at her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s eyes widen in alarm when he sees Mabel, and he quickly makes his way to Stan’s side. He kneels next to the chair, setting a careful hand on Mabel’s back. Mabel peeks over her shoulder at him, wiping her eyes again, and Ford’s face crumples when he sees her expression. He makes a soft, heartbroken noise before opening his arms again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, my dear,” he manages, his voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mabel scrambles into his arms, and he gathers her to his chest and sits down on the floor to hold her. He rocks her gently, and she tangles her little fingers into his sweater. Stan can hear Ford mumbling to her— “not your fault” and “not mad at you, not ever” and “sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry.” She reaches up to pet his hair, and he chuckles wetly. When they separate, Ford carefully returns Mabel to Stan. Stan bundles her against his chest, and she rests her head on his shoulder and grabs Dipper’s hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Ford says, his eyes moving from Mabel’s to Dipper’s to Stan’s. He looks genuinely contrite, his shoulders hunched. “I didn’t mean to frighten you all. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, Dipper?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened to you? Why do you act like that when you get scared?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Heh. Kid’s really sharpened up, hasn’t he? He chases mysteries the way Ford does, now, sharp-toothed and stubborn. Even his precious Author isn’t exempt, and Stan’s glad to see it. Still, that may be one mystery Ford isn’t willing to part with just yet—even Stan hasn’t pried the whole story from him yet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Stan’s not particularly surprised when Ford takes a deep breath and says, “I’ll explain later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper’s shoulders slump, and he looks away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ford insists, and that </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>surprising. Stan arches his eyebrows. “I won’t tell you every single detail, but I’ll explain the basis of it, if that’s what you want. No more secrets. But it’s a long story, and Stanley is injured. I need to see to him first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Dipper hops out of the armchair and puts his hands on his hips. “Then let us help you help him. What do you need?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The look Ford gives him is unbearably exasperated—and unbearably fond. “Warm water, please,” he says, finally. “A washcloth. I’ll gather everything else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper and Mabel rush towards the bathroom, leaving Stan and Ford alone. Stan regards his brother curiously, but before he can say anything, Ford turns on heel and heads for the kitchen. Oh, drat it all! How long is Ford going to be mad at him? Hopefully not another </span>
  <em>
    <span>thirty years—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here you go, Grunkle Stan,” Mabel says, depositing a pile of washcloths into his lap. Dipper follows close behind, setting a bowl of water on the skull beside the armchair. “Did you cut yourself on the glass?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, and twisted my ankle pretty good, too. What can I say?” Stan sighs wistfully. “Not as spry as I used to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you’re not,” Ford agrees, re-entering the room with a first aid kit. He reaches for Stan’s arm, cradling it in one hand. With his other hand, he douses one of Mabel’s many washcloths in water and begins to rub the grime and blood from Stan’s skin. “You ought to be more careful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, ain’t like I </span>
  <em>
    <span>planned </span>
  </em>
  <span>to fall offa the porch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then how come you did?” Dipper asks. “Did you just trip?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan shrugs, careful not to move his injured arm lest he annoy his brother. “Nah. Truck backfired. Kinda startled me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford stiffens. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But I’m alright now,” Stan says to the kids—and for Ford’s benefit. After a moment, Ford resumes his ministrations, reaching for a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He sloshes some into Stan’s wound, and Stan hisses through his teeth. Ford doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. “Yeesh, Six, you get enough in there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what? No, I don’t think I did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ow! Ow ow ow, </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re in a pissy mood.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as he’s done drowning Stan’s wound in disinfectant, Ford pats his wrist dry and wraps it bandages. He moves to examine Stan’s ankle, next, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth when he sees it. It’s swollen, already, and Stan knows it’s going to be bruised all to hell come tomorrow morning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dipper, my boy, can you bring me some ice?” Ford requests. “Mabel, would you run and ask Soos if he has any compression bandages?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both of the children scatter, pelting off in different directions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You gonna tell me what you’re mad about?” Stan asks as soon as they’re gone. “Let me apologize, maybe?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford straightens up, gathering the washcloths and water. “No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford, I—Stanford, don’t walk away from me, damn it—!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford walks away from him without a single backwards glance, and damn if that doesn’t just piss Stan off. What the hell’s gotten into him? He hasn’t acted like this since Stan accidently broke his favorite mug, and even </span>
  <em>
    <span>then </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d been willing to acknowledge Stan’s groveling and forgive him after a couple of hours. What if—what if Stan really has gone too far, this time? What if Ford won’t forgive him? What if today is the day he decides Stan’s too much trouble, too much work, </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan takes a deep, shaky breath and covers his eyes with his hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stanley?” Ford asks when he returns, alarm sharp in his voice. His hand touches Stan’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“C’mon,</span> <span>Ford,” Stan says, his voice rough. “I’m not sayin’ you have to forgive me, but at least give me a chance to be sorry, won’t you? Can’t we talk about this? I don’t—I didn’t mean to upset you. I wasn’t thinkin’ straight, either. I’m </span><em><span>sorry. </span></em><span>Yell at me, if you’ve gotta, but I can’t handle this cold shoulder shit anymore.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Ford inhales sharply. “Stanley, I don’t—I didn’t—oh, damn it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Ford hugs him, and the relief Stan feels is overwhelming. He brings his hands up to clutch his brother’s shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am mad at you,” Ford admits, cupping the back of Stan’s head. “That’s why I don’t want to talk yet. I need time to think, to calm down. I don’t want to say something I regret. I have a...bad habit of doing that, when I’m angry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Stan mumbles. That sounds logical. That sounds like exactly the sort of thing Stan himself would never think to do. “That’s okay. We don’t have to talk now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tonight,” Ford assures him, leaning back and meeting his eyes. “We’ll talk tonight, if that’s okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s fine. But Six—how are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m alright. I’m more worried about you, right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan laughs, patting Ford’s hand where it rests on his shoulder. “Really, I’m okay. It’s just a sprain and a scrape. It’s nothin’ serious.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The injuries aren’t what I’m worried about.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then what are you—"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here you go, Great Uncle Ford!” Dipper says, running back into the room with a bag of frozen peas. “Will this work?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That will work perfectly, my boy,” Ford says, his eyes lighting up with pride. He props up the footrest of the armchair to support Stan’s leg, then takes the peas and sets them gently against Stan’s ankle. “Keep this on for twenty minutes, Stanley, and then take it off for another twenty. We’ll repeat that until the swelling goes down. I’ll bring you some ibuprofen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I got the bandages!” Mabel shouts, skipping into the room. “Soos also sent some candy, and comic books, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Princess Bride. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Oh, and Melody said to give you this!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Melody’s little tabby cat is deposited into Stan’s lap a second later, and, well, that makes just about everything better. He chuckles, reaching out to scratch its back and listening to its throaty purr as it makes itself comfortable on his legs. When Ford returns with a bottle of ibuprofen, he immediately spots the cat and lights up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Mr. Whiskers! Perfect,” Ford says, reaching down to pat the cat. “You can keep an eye on Stanley for me. He’s a very bad patient.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am not!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are too, Stanley, now hush,” Ford says, sliding the peas back long enough to wrap Stan’s ankle in a compression bandage. “Too tight?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, then, you’re all set.” Ford straightens up, setting his hands on his hips. “Do you need anything else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I’m good.” Stanley scratches between the cat’s ears, then glances up at his brother. “Thanks, Ford. Really.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s face softens, and he nods. “Of course. Anytime. Now, I must go speak with Soos, and—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And us!” Dipper hollars, running after Ford as he strides from the living room. “Great Uncle Ford, you promised you’d tell us what happened to you to make you act weird!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, come along. We can walk and talk. That’s a thing kids do these days, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dipper and Mabel run after Ford, and Stan is left with the cat. He exhales, leaning his head back against the armchair. Jesus. What a day, huh? So Ford’s mad at him. That’s not new. Living with somebody day in and day out isn’t perfect, and they’ve done their fair share of bickering at sea. Ford usually listens to his apologies, though, and they never go to sleep mad at each other. The both of them had resolved to communicate more, but it’s—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard, sometimes, Stan knows. Still, he wishes Ford would just yell him or something. That’s the plan for tonight, he supposes, and while he dreads it, he’s also eager for it. He hates it when Ford’s angry at him. His brother’s fury always feels like teetering on a precipice, and Stan’s never quite sure when (or if) they’re going to fall—or what’s going to happen when they do. They haven’t fallen yet, not since setting sail, but—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But they’ve fallen so many times before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The worst thing, he thinks, would be if Ford kicked him off of the Stan o’ War—so that’s what Stan fixates on for most of the afternoon, fretting and chewing his lip and petting the cat until it gets annoyed and shakes him off. He hasn’t made Ford that mad, has he? Sure, he said some really, really stupid stuff, but he wasn’t insulting Ford directly, was he? He’d only been speaking the truth. Back then, when Stan was a vagabond? Ford </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>care. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(And Stan can’t blame him for that, really. Why care about his sleazy, stupid brother when he could be </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy </span>
  </em>
  <span>instead?)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anyway, it’s not like Ford can really hold him to his words, right? He was having a flashback, for cryin’ out loud! Everybody says stuff they don’t mean during flashbacks. Ford must understand that. What if he doesn’t, though? What if he’s tired of dealing with Stan’s flashbacks? What if he’s tired of dealing with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time evening falls, Stan is more than ready to get this whole shitshow over with. Ford takes mercy on him as soon as Dipper and Mabel bound upstairs. He pokes his head into the living room, meeting Stan’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stanley? I hate to ask you to move, but—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s go.” Stan hops up, balancing carefully on one leg. Ford quickly crosses to his side, wrapping an arm around his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We won’t go far,” he assures Stan, “but I don’t want to wake the rest of the household.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re really gonna yell at me, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>planning </span>
  </em>
  <span>on it. But you’ll feel better outside, won’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford knows him too well, now. Stan likes these sorts of conversations out in the open, without walls or doors or locks trapping him in. The two of them tend to argue on deck, because of that. Stan refuses to stay in a room with somebody pissed at him—it feels too much like being cornered, and he hates it. He hadn’t thought Ford had noticed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another thing he’s wrong about, he supposes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Stan says quietly, letting his brother guide him outside. “Thanks, Six. You’re sure you don’t mind?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford glances around, at the dark trees and the open sky, and he hums thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think so, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t enter the forest, but they stray quite some distance away from the Mystery Shack before stopping. Ford guides Stan to sit, and then sits down next to him and gazes up at the stars. It’s a warm night, and the breeze curls softly around them both. Stan follows his brother’s gaze, and for a moment, everything feels very small and very safe and very perfect.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Ford begins to speak: “What you said today made me angry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah? I figured as much. I didn’t—I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean </span>
  </em>
  <span>to say it. I didn’t know where I was, or who I was talking to, or what was going on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. I’m not mad at you for saying it, I suppose. You believed it.” Ford pulls his knees up to his chest, looping his arms around them. “I guess I’m mad </span>
  <em>
    <span>because </span>
  </em>
  <span>you believed it. You really think I don’t care about you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was a long time ago. I was—jeez, I was flashing back to my twenties. I believed a lot of things I don’t believe now. Besides, back then it was true. You didn’t care.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford lowers his head and doesn’t deny it. “...I’m sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.” They’ve had this conversation before. “I forgive you. Water under the bridge, bro.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think it now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think that you don’t care about me? Come on.” Stan nudges him gently. “I know you do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do,” Ford agrees. “I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, too.” Stan takes a deep breath, looking into the looming forest. “That was what upset you? Me saying you didn’t care about me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A little, but that was my fault. I was the one who made you feel unloved, back then, and you had every right to be angry about it. But what really got me—what really </span>
  <em>
    <span>gets </span>
  </em>
  <span>me, Stanley—is what you said about yourself.” Ford’s mouth tightens, his hands curling into fists. “The bad twin? Worthless? Smothering? Stupid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan winces with each word. “Ford, I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you believe that, back then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean…?” Stan throws his hands up, huffing. “Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you believe it now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s throat tightens. Fuck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Stanley,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ford insists, his voice sharpening. “Answer me. Do you still believe those things?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sometimes! I mean, who doesn’t, right? Feel that way, about themselves, sometimes, I mean,” Stan grumbles, looking away from him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you didn’t tell me.” Ford’s voice is cold, now, and Stan </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>hearing it that way. “We agreed. We agreed we’d talk to each other about our problems and you—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, what, because you so </span>
  <em>
    <span>willingly </span>
  </em>
  <span>told me about your little </span>
  <em>
    <span>feral </span>
  </em>
  <span>problem?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford flinches. Good. Damn hypocrite.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Stan scoffs. “What I thought. Besides, it’s not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>problem. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s just a feeling that I get sometimes. I know it’s stupid. Anyway, it doesn’t affect you, so—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t care if it affects me!” Ford says, scrambling to his feet so he can pace. “Don’t you remember what you said to me? ‘It affects you, and I’m responsible for looking after you.’ This is a two-way relationship, Stanley! You take care of me all the time. You’re always dealing with my stupid problems. Why can’t—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sixer, don’t say that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why can’t you just let me take care of you too?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan falls silent, his heart clenching tightly in his chest. He digs his fingers into the grass and forces himself to take a deep breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You tell me that you believe I care about you now,” Ford continues, “but you don’t act like it. You don’t act like you expect me to care about you. What do I have to do to convince you? What </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>I do? Name it, Stanley, I’ll see to it that it’s done!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s—Ford, hey, come on. You don’t have to—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t have to what? Don’t have to look after you? Don’t have to care about you?” Ford demands, mussing his own hair anxiously. “And why not? Because you still think you’re worthless and stupid and bad?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, sit down, please sit down with me—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not true! None of it’s true! And I’m so </span>
  <em>
    <span>angry—” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ford’s shoulders hunch, and his teeth glint milk-white in the moonlight. When he speaks again, a growl warps his voice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m so angry that you think that.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stanford!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s eyes snap to him, blazing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Calm down, buddy, you’ve gotta—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>calm down! </span>
  </em>
  <span>I get to be angry about this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I get to be angry!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jesus! Angry, angry, alright, you’re angry. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry. </span>
  </em>
  <span>What do you want me to do about it? I already apologized.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And apologized for what, exactly?” Ford spits, pacing a line in front of Stan. “For having a flashback? For </span>
  <em>
    <span>bothering </span>
  </em>
  <span>me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes! Obviously! You wouldn’t be this pissed off if I hadn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“You don’t have to apologize for inconveniencing me,” Ford says, tugging at his hair. Stan wants to stop him, but somehow he gets the feeling his touch wouldn’t be appreciated right now. “I </span><em><span>want </span></em><span>to help you. I </span><em><span>want </span></em><span>to be there for you if you’re having a hard time. And I—I know it’s my fault you have a hard time believing that, but it’s time to </span><em><span>start </span></em><span>believing it,</span> <span>Stanley. I’m here. I’m right here. You just have to let me </span><em><span>help.”</span></em></p>
<p>
  <span>“I did. You—you calmed me down, you brought me home, you fixed everything that hurt. You did good, Sixer, you did so good—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Stop making this about me!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s on his feet, then, because he can’t just sit on his ass while his brother shouts at him. His heart thunders in his chest, and he can’t quite tell if he’s angry or terrified. Maybe both. Probably both. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You always do that,” Ford growls. “You always deflect. You never let me in, you never let me help, you never let us have an actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>conversation </span>
  </em>
  <span>about you! Why? Because you think you’re not worth it? Because you hate yourself? Because—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes!” Stan roars. “Yes, alright, because I hate myself and because I don’t want to smother you and because if I’m too needy you’ll just </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave again!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford is silent, then. They both are. They face each other, breathing hard, mirror images through a warped pane of glass. Ford looks—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford looks absolutely stricken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit. Shit, I’m sorry.” Stan scrubs his hands over his face. He feels exhausted, suddenly—absolutely and utterly exhausted. “I didn’t meant to—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t apologize,” Ford says softly, swallowing hard. “I got what I wanted.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s shoulders slump. “So. Pretty clingy of me, huh? You can leave. You’re allowed to leave whenever you want. I don’t want you staying with me just because you—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford crosses the space between them in a few brisk steps and tugs Stanley into a backbreaking hug. His breaths come quick and shaky next to Stan’s ear, and Stan’s stomach turns. Shit. Shit, has he made Ford </span>
  <em>
    <span>cry? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Goddamnit, he’s always doing this, he’s always—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Stan whispers again, frantic. He places his hands against Ford’s back and feels the shivers there, feels the rapid push and pull of Ford’s breath through his ribs. “I’m sorry, Ford, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, I should have—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop it. Stop apologizing for this—stop apologizing for telling me things, for needing me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>help </span>
  </em>
  <span>you,” Ford says, squeezing him impossibly tighter. “Don’t you dare apologize anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan swallows hard around the lump in his throat, pressing his face into Ford’s hair. Ford’s hand comes up to cradle the back of his head, and he sways them both on their feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I just—I don’t want to drive you away,” Stan whispers. “I don’t want to lose you again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You won’t. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But what if I do?” Stan asks helplessly, his voice raw. “What if I do, Ford? You say you don’t mind helping with my memory, and my flashbacks, and my stupid sailing dream, but what if you do? What if you’re just lying because you feel guilty about what happened with Bill? What if I’m smothering you the same way I did all those years ago? What if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate me?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No! No, no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>never. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Don’t ever think that! I have never, and will never, hate you—and that’s not a lie, either. None of it is,” Ford says fiercely. “I stay with you because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. I take care of you because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. I want to make you feel safe, and respected, and—and loved! I want to be the brother I never got to be. I’m not here out of some twisted sense of duty. I’m here because you’re a great person and I like spending time with you. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>our</span>
  </em>
  <span> sailing dream. Us, together. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Stan demands. “How am I supposed to believe you? Everybody lies, Six. Everybody </span>
  <em>
    <span>lies, </span>
  </em>
  <span>all the time—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t know that I’m telling the truth. You can’t know, not for sure.” Ford leans back, meeting Stan’s eyes. “You just have to trust me. Can you do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...Ford wouldn’t blame him if he couldn’t, Stan knows. Ford, of all people, knows how big and dangerous and </span>
  <em>
    <span>impossible </span>
  </em>
  <span>trust can feel, sometimes. But if Ford can learn to trust even a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little </span>
  </em>
  <span>bit after everything he’s been through, then so can Stan, damn it. He’s a lot of shitty things, maybe, but he’s no coward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can try,” Stan whispers, and Ford offers him a wobbly smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. I think so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Good, that’s—thank you.” Ford drags him forward again, nestling his chin on top of Stan’s head. “Thank you. So trust me when I tell you that I’m so proud of you, and I’m not leaving you behind ever again. You’re stuck with me from now on, alright? So you’d better get used to it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan laughs weakly, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his fingers into Ford’s back. “I know, I know,” he says. “It just—it doesn’t make sense.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What doesn’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You. This.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? Me wanting to be with you? Me caring about you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan shrugs, and Ford nudges him unhappily until he explains. “I just—Six, come on. I’m not—” Stan blows out a breath. “I’m not worth this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s growl rattles to life right next to his ear, and he winces. “Enough. You don’t get to say things like that anymore. You—you </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>worthless, maybe, but that doesn’t mean you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>worthless. Far from it. You’re brave, and you’re funny, and you’re smart, and—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Smart? Seriously? Even you can’t be that delusional.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You taught yourself theoretical physics and reconstructed an interdimensional portal! Of course you’re smart.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stanley, you don’t get to argue. You’re obviously in no place to assess your own worth accurately. Besides, even if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>weren’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>smart, you’d still be worth something. Your kindness, your courage, your enthusiasm, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>worth something. Why wouldn’t I care about you?” Ford takes a deep breath, then adds, “I know I wasn’t a good brother before. I know I made you feel like I didn’t ever care, and like everything we ever promised each other was a lie. But this isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>that, not anymore. I’ve changed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>changed. We’re going to do better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...you really believe that?” Stan asks, pressing his heels of his hands to his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do. So you don’t have to be scared anymore, okay? If you’re having a bad day, I want to be there for you. If you’re hurt, I want to help. If you start thinking you’re not worth anything, I want to be able to convince you otherwise, but I can’t do that unless you </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk </span>
  </em>
  <span>to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan shakes his head, and the pressure behind his eyes grows stronger. “I don’t know about that. I’ve been lyin’ for so long, I don’t think I can do anything else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course you can! I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but—we’ll figure it out together, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan takes a deep, shuddering breath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stanley?” Ford nuzzles him. “Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Stan’s voice cracks, splintering at the edges, and he gulps in a breath. His eyes sting. “Yeah, okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Ford says, the relief evident in his voice. He kisses the top of Stan’s head, and Stan brings a hand up to cover his mouth as he chokes back a sob. “Oh—oh, Stanley, it’s alright. I love you, it’s alright.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I can’t—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to be fine all the time. You can be angry, you can be upset, you’re allowed to shout and scream and cry. You don’t have to hide it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Ford.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shh. Shh, I’ve got you, I’m right here. Whatever you need, I’m right here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first sob feels like it cracks Stan’s chest on the way out. It’s terrifying, but Ford is here, Ford is holding him, Ford is keeping him safe, and so Stan—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan lets himself break. He clutches his brother and he cries harder than he has in a long, long time. Tears smear his face, and he burrows into the collar of Ford’s turtleneck, inhales </span>
  <em>
    <span>saltseasafety </span>
  </em>
  <span>with ragged, hitching breaths. Ford lowers them both to the ground, wrapping himself protectively around Stan and rocking him back and forth, back and forth, like a ship on the waves. His fingers stroke through Stan’s hair, gently tugging out tangles as he mumbles aimless comfort.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” he says, and “I’m here, Stanley, I have you,” and “Things are better now, you’ll see” and—most important, most gut-wrenching—“I love you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s too busy falling apart to say it back, but he hopes the way he clutches at Ford conveys the message. He’s sure Ford is crying, too—he can hear his brother’s miserable little sniffles somewhere above him—but they aren’t bad tears, he thinks. They feel like relief. He’s not sure how long they stay there, underneath the summer stars, hurting and healing and crying. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>sure that when they’re finally finished, he’s sore all over, but he feels better than he has in a long time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ford?” he murmurs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad you’re my brother.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A low, rattling purr hums to life in Ford’s chest, and Stan laughs. He brings a hand up, pressing it to Ford’s chest to feel the rumble. Ford sighs happily, resting his chin on Stan’s head, and Stan’s eyes gradually begin to drift shut, lulled by Ford’s soothing purr and the quiet thrum of cicadas in the forest. Before he has the chance to completely fall asleep, though, Ford jostles him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Stan grumbles. “What do you want now?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s go inside. You’ll hurt your back sleeping out here.” Ford disentangles himself, much to Stan’s chagrin, and hauls Stan onto his feet. “How’s your ankle?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘s fine.” Stan loops his arm around Ford’s shoulders, leaning heavily on him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should take some more ibuprofen before you sleep, and I’ll bring you some fresh ice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan wants to protest—there’s no point in making such a fuss, not really. But Ford </span>
  <em>
    <span>cares, </span>
  </em>
  <span>goddamnit, and Stan’s going to have to let him from now on. He doesn’t ever want to make his brother so upset again. Besides, if </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>thinks Stan’s worth it, well—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, Ford’s the smartest guy Stan knows, so maybe he’s actually onto something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Okay,” Stan says, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Thanks, Six.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford tucks him into bed just like Ma used to, fussing about the blankets and the pillows and the temperature and how to prop Stan’s ankle up just right. He only stops once Stan gripes that he’s acting like a broody old hen, then pats the bed beside himself. Ford doesn’t waste any time curling up against his side, one arm draped protectively over his chest and his gaze locked onto the guest room door. Stan squeezes him until he stops looking so tense, cupping a hand over his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop thinking and go to sleep,” he murmurs. “We’re safe here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He expects Ford to protest—or at the very least ignore him. Instead, Ford yawns, closes his eyes with a brush of lashes against Stan’s palm, and says, “Okay. Goodnight, Stanley.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan takes a deep breath, momentarily overwhelmed by his brother’s trust in him. How far they’ve come in only a year—and if their conversation tonight is any indicator, they’re only going to improve. Things are good, he thinks. Things are difficult and scary, sometimes, but mostly they’re...they’re good. They’re really good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Night, Ford.” Stan stretches lazily, and then lets his own eyes drift shut. His brother’s gentle breathing assures him that all is right with the world. “See you in the morning.”</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>An eight-year-old Ford scrambles into the mouth of the cave, his eyes wide with excitement. In front of him, the world slopes down into darkness—the mouth, he imagines, of some fascinating gargantuan beast. The stones scrape his palms as he slides down the slope and to the cave floor, his sneakers splashing into a cold puddle. This, he thinks, is a very clever hiding place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stanley!” he shouts gleefully, shining his flashlight into the shadows as he runs forward. The rocks loom around him, spirals and spicules and glossy spears. He takes care not to touch any (he knows well that the oils on his skin could damage the formations) as he plunges deeper into the cave. “Stanleeeeey!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thing is, Stanley’s not very good at hiding—but he’s done a fantastic job, this time. If he was willing to hole himself up in some dark, cramped space here, Ford would probably never find him! (And Pa would be mad, because Ford is supposed to the one keeping his twin out of trouble. A tall order!) Only Stanley doesn’t like small spaces, just like he doesn’t like tall places or chores or homework. All Ford has to do is stick to the widest path, shine his flashlight all around, and—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stanley!” he cries joyfully, his light catching on his brother’s striped shirt. He runs forward, smashing into Stanley, and they both crash to the floor with twin yelps. Ford can’t help but giggle, breathless with his victory. “Found you, found you, I found you again!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, okay, you win. Now get off, would ya?” Stanley smushes Ford’s face until he stands back up. Then he reaches down, lacing his fingers through Stanley’s and hauling him to his feet. They dust themselves off, their laughter echoing off of the cave walls. “Pretty good spot, though, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford spins around, his eyes wide. “It’s incredible! This should be our new hide-out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I guess it’s pretty cool,” Stanley says, shrugging—but there’s a proud gleam in his eyes that Ford doesn’t miss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can explore tomorrow,” Ford decides, his mind already spinning. They’ll need new batteries for their flashlights, and jellybeans for snacks (plus some toffee peanuts for Stanley, of course), and water bottles, and jackets since it’s so chilly in here, and—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“S’ppose we should get back before Pa notices we’re gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s shoulders slump. “Oh. Yeah, I guess so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, come on.” Stanley kicks his ankle gently. “We’re not done playing hide and seek yet. Go hide somewhere on the way back to the house. Bet I’ll find you in no time!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford’s eyes brighten again. “Ha! Yeah, right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stanley closes his own eyes, beginning to count loudly. “One, two, three…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford takes off, his steps echoing through the cave until he bursts back out onto the beach. The sunlight blinds him, bright and gaudy, and the waves crash in the distance. A pair of gulls glide overhead, their wings catching in the wind. Ford squeals in delight—this place is so awesome!—before scrambling down the craggy black rocks and into the sand. He knows the perfect spot to hide on the way back to town!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...ready or not here I come!” Stanley shouts behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford plunges into his hiding spot just in time, cupping his hands over his mouth to muffle the sound of his breathing. He waits there, giddy and breathless and secure in the knowledge that no matter where he hides, no matter how clever his hide-outs are, no matter how long it takes, Stanley’s always going to find him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ford wouldn’t have it any other way.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>aaaAAND that wraps this fic up !!!! thank you all so so so much for your continued support!! i had a blast writing this, and it was a great learning experience as far as figuring out stan and ford's povs! this au is a ton of fun, and i'd love to write more for it someday! if you want scream at me about feral ford or gravity falls or life in general, you can do so in the comments or over on my <a href="https://parsnipit.tumblr.com/">tumblr!</a> </p>
<p>i have a few more stan twins fics in the works, so keep an eye out for those ;) </p>
<p>thank you all again, and happy happy halloween!!!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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